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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
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38p  Eate  iDonrjlas  W\%$\xi 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  CHRISTMAS  CARD.  Illustrated  in 
color. 

PENELOPE'S  POSTSCRIPTS.     With  frontispiece. 

THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER.     Illustrated. 

THE  BIRDS'  CHRISTMAS  CAROL.  Holiday  Edition.  Illus- 
trated in  color. 

A  CHILD'S  JOURNEY  WITH  DICKENS.     With   frontispiece 

MOTHER  CAREY'S  CHICKENS.     Illustrated 

ROBINETTA.     Illustrated. 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK  FARM.  Holiday  Edition. 
Illustrated. 

SUSANNA  AND  SUE.     Illustrated. 

THE  OLD  PEABODY  PEW.    With  decorations  and  illustrations. 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK  FARM. 

NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA.   Illustrated. 

ROSE  O'  THE  RIVER.     Illusirated  in  color. 

THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  INN.     Illustrated. 

THE  DIARY  OF  A  GOOSE  GIRL.     Illustrated. 

A  CATHEDRAL  COURTSHIP,  and  PENELOPE'S  ENG- 
LISH EXPERIENCES.   Illustrated. 

PENELOPE'S  PROGRESS. 

PENELOPE'S  IRISH  EXPERIENCES. 

PENELOPE'S  EXPERIENCES.  I.  England;  II.  Scotland; 
III.  Ireland;  Holiday  Edition.  Withmany  illustrations  by  Charles 
E.  Brock. 

A  CATHEDRAL  COURTSHIP.  Holiday  Edition,  enlarged. 
Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Brock. 

THE  BIRDS*  CHRISTMAS  CAROL.    Illustrated. 

THE  STORY  OF  PATSY.     Illustrated. 

A    SUMMER   IN    A   CANON.    A   California  Story.     Illustrated. 

TIMOTHY'S  QUEST.  A  Story  for  Anybody,  Young  or  Old,  who 
cares  to  read  it.     Also  Holiday  Edition.     Illustrated. 

POLLY  OLIVER'S  PROBLEM.     Illustrated. 

THE  VILLAGE  WATCH-TOWER. 

MARM  LISA. 

NINE  LOVE  SONGS,  AND  A  CAROL.  Music  by  Mrs.  Wiggin. 
Words  by  Hbrrick,  Sill,  and  others. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York. 


'  ROMANCE 
CHRISTMAS 


CARD 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hi 


http://archive.org/details/romanceofchristmOOwi 


COPYRIGHT,    1915,    BY   THE   BUTTERICK   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,    1916,    BY    KATE    DOUGLAS    RIGGS 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


Published  October  iqib 


■  .  V     '"in.       • 


■■■* 


Zfyt  (Romance 
of  a  Cfyvi&tm&B  (Darb 

i 

It  was  Christmas  Eve  and  a  Saturday- 
night  when  Mrs.  Larrabee,  the  Beulah 
minister's  wife,  opened  the  door  of  the 
study  where  her  husband  was  deep  in  the 
revision  of  his  next  day's  sermon,  and 
thrust  in  her  comely  head  framed  in  a 
knitted  rigolette. 


&§£  (Romance  of 

"Luther,  I'm  going  to  run  down  to 
Letty's.  We  think  the  twins  are  going  to 
have  measles;  it's  the  only  thing  they 
have  n't  had,  and  Letty's  spirits  are  not 
up  to  concert  pitch.  You  look  like  a 
blessed  old  prophet  to-night,  my  dear! 
What's  the  text?" 

The  minister  pushed  back  his  specta- 
cles and  ruffled  his  gray  hair. 

"Isaiah  vi,  8:  'And  I  heard  the  voice  of 
the  Lord,  saying  whom  shall  I  send?  .  .  . 
Then  said  I,  Here  am  I,  send  me!'" 

11  It  does  n't  sound  a  bit  like  Christmas, 
somehow." 

"It  has  the  spirit,  if  it  hasn't  the 
sound,"  said  the  minister.  "There  is  al- 
ways so  little  spare  money  in  the  village 
that  we  get  less  and  less  accustomed  to 
sharing  what  we  have  with  others.  I 
want  to  remind  the  people  that  there  are 
2 


(ft  CfyxxBtm&tt  Cat* 

different  ways  of  giving,  and  that  the  be- 
stowing of  one's  self  in  service  and  good 
deeds  can  be  the  best  of  all  gifts.  Letty 
Boynton  won't  need  the  sermon!  —  Don't 
be  late,  Reba." 

"Of  course  not.  When  was  I  ever  late? 
It  has  just  struck  seven  and  I  '11  be  back 
by  eight  to  choose  the  hymns.  And  oh! 
Luther,  I  have  some  fresh  ideas  for  Christ- 
mas cards  and  I  am  going  to  try  my  luck 
with  them  in  the  marts  of  trade.  There 
are  hundreds  of  thousands  of  such  things 
sold  nowadays;  and  if  the  'Boston  Ban- 
ner' likes  my  verses  well  enough  to  send 
me  the  paper  regularly,  why  should  n't 
the  people  who  make  cards  like  them  too, 
especially  when  I  can  draw  and  paint  my 
own  pictures?" 

"I've  no  doubt  they'll  like  them;  who 
would  n't?  If  the  parish  knew  what  a 
3 


&>§t  (Romance  of 

ready  pen  you  have,  they'd  suspect  that 
you  help  me  in  my  sermons  I  The  question 
is,  will  the  publishers  send  you  a  check,  or 
only  a  copy  of  your  card?" 

"I  should  relish  a  check,  I  confess;  but 
oh!  I  should  like  almost  as  well  a  beauti- 
fully colored  card,  Luther,  with  a  picture 
of  my  own  inventing  on  it,  my  own  verse, 
and  R.  L.  in  tiny  letters  somewhere  in  the 
corner!  It  would  make  such  a  lovely 
Christmas  present!  And  I  should  be  so 
proud;  inside  of  course,  not  outside!  1 
would  cover  my  halo  with  my  hat  so  that 
nobody  in  the  congregation  would  ever 
notice  it!" 

The  minister  laughed. 

"Consult  Letty,  my  dear.  David  used 
to  be  in  some  sort  of  picture  business  in 
Boston.  She  will  know,  perhaps,  where  to 
offer  your  card!" 

4 


(ft  Cfymtmas  Caxb 

At  the  introduction  of  a  new  theme  into 
the  conversation  Mrs.  Larrabee  slipped 
into  a  chair  by  the  door,  her  lantern 
swinging  in  her  hand. 

"David  can't  be  as  near  as  Boston  or 
we  should  hear  of  him  sometimes.  A 
pretty  sort  of  brother  to  be  meandering 
foot-loose  over  the  earth,  and  Letty  work- 
ing her  fingers  to  the  bone  to  support  his 
children  —  twins  at  that!  It  was  just  like 
David  Gilman  to  have  twins!  Does  n't  it 
seem  incredible  that  he  can  let  Christmas 
go  by  without  a  message?  I  dare  say  he 
does  n't  even  remember  that  his  babies 
were  born  on  Christmas  eve.  To  be  sure 
he  is  only  Letty's  half-brother,  but  after 
all  they  grew  up  together  and  are  nearly 
the  same  age. " 

"You  always  judged  David  a  little  se- 
verely, Reba.  Don't  despair  of  reforming 
5 


&%<i  (Romance  of 

any  man  till  you  see  the  grass  growing 
over  his  bare  bones.  I  always  have  a  soft 
spot  in  my  heart  for  him  when  I  remember 
his  friendship  for  my  Dick;  but  that  was 
before  your  time.  —  Oh !  these  boys,  these 
boys!"  The  minister's  voice  quavered. 
"We  give  them  our  very  life-blood.  We 
love  them,  cherish  them,  pray  over  them, 
do  our  best  to  guide  them,  yet  they  take 
the  path  that  leads  from  home.  In  some 
way,  God  knows  how,  we  fail  to  call  out 
the  return  love,  or  even  the  filial  duty  and 
respect!  —  Well,  we  won't  talk  about  it, 
Reba ;  my  business  is  to  breathe  the  breath 
of  life  into  my  text:  'Here  am  I,  Lord, 
send  me!'  Letty  certainly  continues  to 
say  it  heroically,  whatever  her  troubles." 
"Yes,  Letty  is  so  ready  for  service  that 
she  will  always  be  sent,  till  the  end  of 
time;  but  if  David  ever  has  an  interview 
6 


(ft  t§mtm&B  C&xb 

with  his  Creator  I  can  hear  him  say: 
"Here  am  I,  Lord;  send  Letty!'" 

The  minister  laughed  again.  He 
laughed  freely  and  easily  nowadays.  His 
first  wife  had  been  a  sort  of  understudy 
for  a  saint,  and  after  a  brief  but  depress- 
ing connubial  experience  she  had  died, 
leaving  him  with  a  boy  of  six ;  a  boy  who 
already,  at  that  tender  age,  seemed  to 
cherish  a  passionate  aversion  to  virtue  in 
any  form  —  the  result,  perhaps,  of  daily 
doses  of  the  catechism  administered  by  an 
abnormally  pious  mother. 

The  minister  had  struggled  valiantly 
with  his  paternal  and  parochial  cares  for 
twelve  lonely  years  when  he  met,  wooed, 
and  won  (very  much  to  his  astonishment 
and  exaltation)  Reba  Crosby.  There 
never  was  a  better  bargain  driven!  She 
was  forty-five  by  the  family  Bible  but 
7 


&%t  (Romance  of 

twenty-five  in  face,  heart,  and  mind,  while 
he  would  have  been  printed  as  sixty  in 
"Who's  Who  in  New  Hampshire"  al- 
though he  was  far  older  in  patience  and 
experience  and  wisdom.  The  minister  was 
spiritual,  frail,  and  a  trifle  prone  to  self- 
depreciation ;  the  minister's  new  wife  was 
spirited,  vigorous,  courageous,  and  clever. 
She  was  also  Western-born,  college-bred, 
good  as  gold,  and  invincibly,  incurably 
gay.  The  minister  grew  younger  every 
year,  for  Reba  doubled  his  joys  and  halved 
his  burdens,  tossing  them  from  one  of  her 
fine  shoulders  to  the  other  as  if  they  were 
feathers.  She  swept  into  the  quiet  village 
life  of  Beulah  like  a  salt  sea  breeze.  She 
infused  a  new  spirit  into  the  bleak  church 
"sociables"  and  made  them  positively 
agreeable  functions.  The  choir  ceased 
from  wrangling,  the  Sunday  School 
3 


(ft  Cfyxiztma*  Cavb 

plucked  up  courage  and  flourished  like  a 
green  bay  tree.  She  managed  the  deacons, 
she  braced  up  the  missionary  societies, 
she  captivated  the  parish,  she  cheered 
the  depressed  and  depressing  old  ladies 
and  cracked  jokes  with  the  invalids. 

"Ain't  she  a  little  mite  too  jolly  for  a 
minister's  wife?"  questioned  Mrs.  Ossian 
Popham,  who  was  a  professional  pessimist. 

"If  this  world  is  a  place  of  want,  woe, 
wantonness,  an'  wickedness,  same  as  you 
claim,  Maria,  I  don't  see  how  a  minister's 
wife  can  be  too  jolly! "  was  her  husband's 
cheerful  reply.  "Look  how  she's  melted 
up  the  ice  in  both  congregations,  so 't  the 
other  church  is  most  willin'  we  should 
prosper,  so  long  as  Mis'  Larrabee  stays 
here  an'  we  don't  get  too  fur  ahead  of  'em 
in  attendance.  Me  for  the  smiles,  Maria ! " 

And  Osh  Popham  was  right;  for  Reba 


%,%*,  (Romance  of 

Larrabee  convinced  the  members  of  the 
rival  church  (the  rivalry  between  the  two 
being  in  rigidity  of  creed,  not  in  persist- 
ency in  good  works)  that  there  was  room 
in  heaven  for  at  least  two  denominations; 
and  said  that  if  they  could  n't  unite  in  this 
world,  perhaps  they'd  get  round  to  it  in 
the  next.  Finally,  she  saved  Letitia  Boyn- 
ton's  soul  alive  by  giving  her  a  warm,  un- 
derstanding friendship,  and  she  even  con- 
tracted to  win  back  the  minister's  absent 
son  some  time  or  other,  and  convince  him 
of  the  error  of  his  ways. 

''Let  Dick  alone  a  little  longer,  Lu- 
ther," she  would  say;  "don't  hurry  him, 
for  he  won't  come  home  so  long  as  he's  a 
failure;  it  would  please  the  village  too 
much,  and  Dick  hates  the  village.  He 
does  n't  accept  our  point  of  view,  that  we 
must  love  our  enemies  and  bless  them  that 
10 


(ft  Cfyx\*tM&*  Caxb 

despitefully  use  us.  The  village  did  de- 
spitefully  use  Dick,  and  for  that  matter, 
David  Gilman  too.  They  were  criticized, 
gossiped  about,  judged  without  mercy. 
Nobody  believed  in  them,  nobody  ever 
praised  them ;  —  and  what  is  that  about 
praise  being  the  fructifying  sun  in  which 
our  virtues  ripen,  or  something  like  that? 
I  'm  not  quoting  it  right,  but  I  wish  I  'd 
said  it.  They  were  called  wild  when  most 
of  their  wildness  was  exuberant  vitality; 
their  mistakes  were  magnified,  their  mad 
pranks  exaggerated.  If  I  'd  been  married 
to  you,  my  dear,  while  Dick  was  growing 
up,  I  would  n't  have  let  you  keep  him  here 
in  this  little  backwater  of  life;  he  needed 
more  room,  more  movement.  They  would 
n't  have  been  so  down  on  him  in  Racine, 
Wisconsin!" 

Mrs.    Larrabee    lighted    her    lantern, 
11 


&§t  (Romance  of 

closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  walked 
briskly  down  the  lonely  road  that  led  from 
the  parsonage  at  Beulah  Corner  to  Letitia 
Boynton's  house.  It  was  bright  moonlight 
and  the  ground  was  covered  with  light- 
fallen  snow,  but  the  lantern  habit  was  a 
fixed  one  among  Beulah  ladies,  who,  even 
when  they  were  not  widows  or  spinsters, 
made  their  evening  calls  mostly  without 
escort.  The  light  of  a  lantern  not  only 
enabled  one  to  pick  the  better  side  of  a  bad 
road,  but  would  illuminate  the  face  of  any 
male  stranger  who  might  be  of  a  burglari- 
ous or  murderous  disposition.  Reba  Lar- 
rabee  was  not  a  timid  person;  indeed, 
she  was  wont  to  say  that  men  were  so 
scarce  in  Beulah  that  unless  they  were 
out-and-out  ruffians  it  would  be  an  in- 
spiration to  meet  a  few,  even  if  it  were 
only  to  pass  them  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
12 


(21  C§x%Btma&  C&xb 

There  was  a  light  in  the  meeting-house 
as  she  passed,  and  then  there  was  a  long 
stretch  of  shining  white  silence  unmarked 
by  any  human  habitation  till  she  came  to 
the  tumble-down  black  cottage  inhabited 
by  "  Door-Button"  Davis,  as  the  little  old 
man  was  called  in  the  village.  In  the  dis- 
tance she  could  see  Osh  Popham's  two- 
story  house  brilliantly  illuminated  by  ker- 
osene lamps,  and  as  she  drew  nearer  she 
even  descried  Ossian  himself,  seated  at  the 
cabinet  organ  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  practic- 
ing the  Christmas  anthem,  his  daughter 
holding  a  candle  to  the  page  while  she 
struggled  to  adjust  a  circuitous  alto  to  her 
father's  tenor.  On  the  hither  side  of  the 
Popham  house,  and  quite  obscured  by  it, 
stood  Letitia  Boynton's  one-story  gray 
cottage.  It  had  a  clump  of  tall  cedar  trees 
for  background  and  the  bare  branches  of 
13 


*&§t  (Romance  of 

the  elms  in  front  were  hung  lightly  with 
snow  garlands.  As  Mrs.  Larrabee  came 
closer,  she  set  down  her  lantern  and  looked 
fixedly  at  the  familiar  house  as  if  some- 
thing new  arrested  her  gaze. 

"It  looks  like  a  little  night-light!"  she 
thought.  "And  how  queer  of  Letty  to  be 
sitting  at  the  open  window!" 

Nearer  still  she  crept,  yet  not  so  near 
as  to  startle  her  friend.  A  tall  brass  can- 
dlestick, with  a  lighted  tallow  candle  in 
it,  stood  on  the  table  in  the  parlor  win- 
dow; but  the  room  in  which  Letty  sat 
was  unlighted  save  by  the  fire  on  the 
hearth,  which  gleamed  brightly  behind 
the  quaint  andirons  —  Hessian  soldiers  of 
iron,  painted  in  gay  colors.  Over  the  man- 
tel hung  the  portrait  of  Letty's  mother,  a 
benign  figure  clad  in  black  silk,  the  hand- 
some head  topped  by  a  snowy  muslin  cap 
14 


(ft  C§x\&tm&*  Caxb 

with  floating  strings.  Just  round  the  cor- 
ner of  the  fireplace  was  a  half-open  door 
leading  into  a  tiny  bedroom,  and  the  flick- 
ering flame  lighted  the  heads  of  two  sleep- 
ing children,  arms  interlocked,  bright 
tangled  curls  flowing  over  one  pillow. 

Letty  herself  sat  in  a  low  chair  by  the 
open  window  wrapped  in  an  old  cape  of 
ruddy  brown  homespun,  from  the  folds  of 
which  her  delicate  head  rose  like  a  flower 
in  a  bouquet  of  autumn  leaves.  One  elbow 
rested  on  the  table;  her  chin  in  the  cup  of 
her  hand.  Her  head  was  turned  away  a 
little  so  that  one  could  see  only  the  knot  of 
bronze  hair,  the  curve  of  a  cheek,  and  the 
sweep  of  an  eyelash. 

"What    a    picture!"    thought    Reba. 
"The  very  thing  for  my  Christmas  card! 
It  would  do  almost  without  a  change,  if 
only  she  is  willing  to  let  me  use  her." 
15 


(ft  CfyxxztmcM  Caxb 

"Wake  up,  Letty!"  she  called.  "Come 
and  let  me  in !  —  Why,  your  front  door 
is  n't  closed!" 

"The  fire  smoked  a  little  when  I  first 
lighted  it,"  said  Letty,  rising  when  her 
friend  entered,  and  then  softly  shutting 
the  bedroom  door  that  the  children  might 
not  waken.  "The  night  is  so  mild  and  the 
room  so  warm,  I  could  n't  help  opening  the 
window  to  look  at  the  moon  on  the  snow. 
Sit  down,  Reba !  How  good  of  you  to  come 
when  you  've  been  rehearsing  for  the  Christ- 
mas Tree  exercises  all  the  afternoon." 


II 

"It's  never  'good'  of  me  to  come  to  talk 
with  you,  Letty!"  And  the  minister's 
wife  sank  into  a  comfortable  seat  and  took 
off  her  rigolette.  "  Enough  virtue  has  gone 
out  of  me  to-day  to  Christianize  an  entire 
heathen  nation!  Oh!  how  I  wish  Luther 
would  go  and  preach  to  a  tribe  of  canni- 
bals somewhere,  and  make  me  superin- 
tendent of  the  Sabbath-School!  How  I 
should  like  to  deal,  just  for  a  change,  with 
some  simple  problem  like  the  undesira- 
17 


Zfy  (Romance  of 

bility  and  indigestibility  involved  in  de- 
vouring your  next-door  neighbor!  Now 
I  pass  my  life  in  saying,  '  Love  your  neigh- 
bor as  yourself;  which  is  far  more  dif- 
ficult than  to  say,  '  Don't  eat  your  neigh- 
bor, it 's  such  a  disgusting  habit,  —  and 
wrong  besides,'  —  though  I  dare  say  they 
do  it  half  the  time  because  the  market 
is  bad.  The  first  thing  I'd  do  would  be 
to  get  my  cannibals  to  raise  sheep.  If  they 
ate  more  mutton,  they  would  n't  eat  so 
many  missionaries." 

Letty  laughed.  "You're  so  funny, 
Reba  dear,  and  I  was  so  sad  before  you 
came  in.  Don't  let  the  minister  take  you 
to  the  cannibals  until  after  I  die!" 

"No  danger!  —  Letty,  do  you  remem- 
ber I  told  you  I  'd  been  trying  my  hand  on 
some  verses  for  a  Christmas  card?" 

"Yes;  have  you  sent  them  anywhere?" 
18 


(ft  Cfyxiztma*  C&xb 

"  Not  yet.  I  could  n't  think  of  the  right 
decoration  and  color  scheme  and  was 
afraid  to  trust  it  all  to  the  publishers. 
Now  I've  found  just  what  I  need  for  one 
of  them,  and  you  gave  it  to  me,  Letty!" 

"I?" 

"Yes,  you ;  to-night,  as  I  came  down  the 
road.  The  house  looked  so  quaint,  backed 
by  the  dark  cedars,  and  the  moon  and  the 
snow  made  everything  -  lazzling.  I  could 
see  the  firelight  through  the  open  window, 
the  Hessian  soldier  andirons,  your  moth- 
er's portrait,  the  children  asleep  in  the 
next  room,  and  you,  wrapped  in  your  cape 
waiting  or  watching  for  something  or 
somebody." 

"  I  wasn't  watching  or  waiting!  I  was 
dreaming,"  said  Letty  hurriedly. 

"You  looked  as  if  you  were  watching, 
anyway,  and  I  thought  if  I  were  painting 

19 


&§t  (Romance  of 

the  picture  I  would  call  it  'Expectancy,' 
or  'The  Vigil,'  or  'Sentry  Duty.'  How- 
ever, when  I  make  you  into  a  card,  Letty, 
nobody  will  know  what  the  figure  at  the 
window  means,  till  they  read  my  verses." 

"I'll  give  you  the  house,  the  room,  the 
andirons,  and  even  mother's  portrait,  but 
you  don't  mean  that  you  want  to  put  me 
on  the  card?"  And  Letty  turned  like  a 
startled  deer  as  she  rose  and  brushed  a 
spark  from  the  hearth-rug. 

"No,  not  the  whole  of  you,  of  course, 
though  I'm  not  clever  enough  to  get  a 
likeness  even  if  I  wished.  I  merely  want 
to  make  a  color  sketch  of  your  red-brown 
cape,  your  hair  that  matches  it,  your  ear, 
an  inch  of  cheek,  and  the  eyelashes  of  one 
eye,  if  you  please,  ma'am." 

"That  does  n't  sound  quite  so  terrify- 
ing." And  Letty  looked  more  manageable. 
20 


(ft  C§x\*tmbB  Ccvcb 

"Nobody '11  ever  know  that  a  real  per- 
son sat  at  a  real  window  and  that  I  saw  her 
there;  but  when  I  send  the  card  with  a 
finished  picture,  and  my  verses  beauti- 
fully lettered  on  it,  the  printing  people 
will  be  more  likely  to  accept  it." 

"And  if  they  do,  shall  I  have  a  dozen  to 
give  to  my  Bible-class?  "  asked  Letty  in  a 
wheedling  voice. 

"You  shall  have  more  than  that!  I'm 
willing  to  divide  my  magnificent  profits 
with  you.  You  will  have  furnished  the 
picture  and  I  the  verses.  It's  wonderful, 
Letty,  —  it's  providential!  You  just  are 
a  Christmas  card  to-night!  It  seems  so 
strange  that  you  even  put  the  lighted 
candle  in  the  window  when  you  never 
heard  my  verse.  The  candle  caught  my 
eye  first,  and  I  remembered  the  Christ- 
mas customs  we  studied  for  the  church 
21 


&§t  (Romance  of 

festival,  —  the  light  to  guide  the  Christ 
Child  as  he  walks  through  the  dark  streets 
on  the  Eve  of  Mary." 

"Yes,  I  thought  of  that,"  said  Letty, 
flushing  a  little.  "I  put  the  candle  there 
first  so  that  the  house  should  n't  be  all 
dark  when  the  Pophams  went  by  to  choir- 
meeting,  and  just  then  I  —  I  remembered, 
and  was  glad  I  did  it!" 

"These  are  my  verses,  Letty."  And 
Reba's  voice  was  soft  as  she  turned  her 
face  away  and  looked  at  the  flames  mount- 
ing upward  in  the  chimney :  — 

My  door  is  on  the  latch  to-night, 

The  hearth  fire  is  aglow. 
I  seem  to  hear  swift  passing  feet,  — 

The  Christ  Child  in  the  snow. 

My  heart  is  open  wide  to-night 

For  stranger,  kith  or  kin. 
I  would  not  bar  a  single  door 

Where  Love  might  enter  in! 

22 


(ft  C$X\*tMM  C&tf) 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  and  Letty 
broke  it.  "It  means  the  sort  of  love  the 
Christ  Child  brings,  with  peace  and  good- 
will in  it.  I  'm  glad  to  be  a  part  of  that  card, 
Reba,  so  long  as  nobody  knows  me,  and — " 

Here  she  made  an  impetuous  movement 
and,  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands, 
burst  into  a  despairing  flood  of  confidence, 
the  words  crowding  each  other  and  tum- 
bling out  of  her  mouth  as  if  they  feared  to 
be  stopped. 

"After  I  put  the  candle  on  the  table  .  .  . 
I  could  not  rest  for  thinking  ...  I  was  n't 
ready  in  my  soul  to  light  the  Christ  Child 
on  his  way  ...  I  was  bitter  and  unre- 
signed  .  .  .  It  is  three  years  to-night  since 
the  children  were  born  .  .  .  and  each  year 
I  have  hoped  and  waited  and  waited  and 
hoped,  thinking  that  David  might  remem- 
ber. David!  my  brother,  their  father! 
23 


£§e  (Romance  of 

Then  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  the  moon  and 
the  snow  quieted  me,  and  I  felt  that  I 
wanted  to  open  the  door,  just  a  little.  No 
one  will  notice  that  it's  ajar,  I  thought, 
but  there 's  a  touch  of  welcome  in  it,  any- 
way. And  after  a  few  minutes  I  said  to 
myself:  'It's  no  use,  David  won't  come; 
but  I  'm  glad  the  firelight  shines  on  moth- 
er's picture,  for  he  loved  mother,  and  if  she 
had  n't  died  when  he  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  boy,  things  might  have  been  differ- 
ent. .  .  .  The  reason  I  opened  the  bedroom 
door  —  something  I  never  do  when  the 
babies  are  asleep  —  was  because  I  needed 
a  sight  of  their  faces  to  reconcile  me  to  my 
duty  and  take  the  resentment  out  of  my 
heart  .  .  .  and  it  did  flow  out,  Reba,  — 
out  into  the  stillness.  It  is  so  dazzling 
white  outside,  I  could  n't  bear  my  heart 
to  be  shrouded  in  gloom!" 

24 


(&  Cfyxx&tmcM  Caxb 

"  Poor  Letty!"  And  Mrs.  Larrabee  fur- 
tively wiped  away  a  tear.  "How  long 
since  you  have  heard?  I  did  n't  dare  ask." 

"  Not  a  word,  not  a  line  for  nearly  three 
months,  and  for  the  half-year  before  that 
it  was  nothing  but  a  note,  sometimes  with 
a  five-dollar  bill  enclosed.  David  seems  to 
think  it  the  natural  thing  for  me  to  look 
after  his  children;  as  if  there  could  be  no 
question  of  any  life  of  my  own." 

"You  began  wrong,  Letty.  You  were 
born  a  prop  and  you've  been  propping 
somebody  ever  since." 

"  I  've  done  nothing  but  my  plain  duty. 
When  my  mother  died  there  was  my  step- 
father to  nurse,  but  I  was  young  and 
strong;  I  did  n't  mind;  and  he  was  n't  a 
burden  long,  poor  father.  Then,  after  four 
years  came  the  shock  of  David's  reckless 
marriage.  When  he  asked  if  he  might 
25 


&%t  (Romans  of 

bring  that  girl  here  until  her  time  of  trial 
was  over,  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  never 
endure  it!  But  there  were  only  two  of  us 
left,  David  and  I ;  I  thought  of  mother  and 
said  yes." 

"I  remember,  Letty;  I  had  come  to 
Beulah  then." 

"Yes,  and  you  know  what  Eva  was. 
How  David,  how  anybody,  could  have 
loved  her,  I  cannot  think!  Well,  he 
brought  her,  and  you  know  how  it  turned 
out.  David  never  saw  her  alive  again,  nor 
ever  saw  his  babies  after  they  were  three 
days  old.  Still,  what  can  you  expect  of  a 
father  who  is  barely  twenty-one?" 

"If  he's  old  enough  to  have  children, 
he's  old  enough  to  notice  them,"  said 
Mrs.  Larrabee  with  her  accustomed  spirit. 
"Somebody  ought  to  jog  his  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility. It's  wrong  for  women  to 
26 


(ft  C§x\&tma&  Caxb 

assume  men's  burdens  beyond  a  certain 
point;  it  only  makes  them  more  selfish.  If 
you  only  knew  where  David  is,  you  ought 
to  bundle  the  children  up  and  express 
them  to  his  address.  Not  a  word  of  expla- 
nation or  apology;  simply  tie  a  tag  on 
them,  saying,  'Here's  your  Twins!'" 

"But  I  love  the  babies,"  said  Letty 
smiling  through  her  tears,  "and  David 
may  not  be  in  a  position  to  keep  them." 

"Then  he  should  n't  have  had  them," 
retorted  Reba  promptly;  "especially  not 
two  of  them.  There's  such  a  thing  as  a 
man's  being  too  lavish  with  babies  when 
he  has  no  intention  of  doing  anything  for 
them  but  bring  them  into  the  world.  If 
you  had  a  living  income,  it  would  be  one 
thing,  but  it  makes  me  burn  to  have  you 
stitching  on  coats  to  feed  and  clothe  your 
half-brother's  children!" 
27 


€§t  (Romance  of 

"  Perhaps  it  does  n't  make  any  differ- 
ence —  now!"  sighed  Letty,  pushing  back 
her  hair  with  an  abstracted  gesture.  "I 
gave  up  a  good  deal  for  the  darlings  once, 
but  that's  past  and  gone.  Now,  after  all, 
they  're  the  only  life  I  have,  and  I  'd  rather 
make  coats  for  them  than  for  myself." 

Letty  Boynton  had  never  said  so  much 
as  this  to  Mrs.  Larrabee  in  the  three  years 
of  their  friendship,  and  on  her  way  back  to 
the  parsonage,  the  minister's  wife  puzzled 
a  little  over  the  look  in  Letty' s  face  when 
she  said,  "David  seemed  to  think  there 
could  be  no  question  of  any  life  of  my 
own  " ;  and  again, "  I  gave  up  a  good  deal 
for  the  darlings  once!" 

"Luther,"  she  said  to  the  minister, 
when  the  hymns  had  been  chosen,  the  ser- 
mon pronounced  excellent,  and  they  were 
toasting  their  toes  over  the  sitting-room 
28 


(ft  C§x\*tm&8  Caxb 

fire,  —  "Luther,  do  you  suppose  there 
ever  was  anything  between  Letty  Boyn- 
ton  and  your  Dick?" 

"No,"  he  answered  reflectively,  "I 
don't  think  so.  Dick  always  admired 
Letty  and  went  to  the  house  a  great  deal, 
but  I  imagine  that  was  chiefly  for  David's 
sake,  for  they  were  as  like  as  peas  in  a  pod 
in  the  matter  of  mischief.  If  there  had 
been  more  than  friendship  between  Dick 
and  Letty,  Dick  would  never  have  gone 
away  from  Beulah,  or  if  he  had  gone,  he 
surely  would  have  come  back  to  see  how 
Letty  fared.  A  fellow  yearns  for  news  of 
the  girl  he  loves  even  when  he  is  content  to 
let  silence  reign  between  him  and  his  old 
father.  —  What  makes  you  think  there 
was  anything  particular,  Reba?" 

"What  makes  anybody  think  anything! 
—  I  wonder  why  some  people  are  born 

29 


&§t  (Romans  of 

props,  and  others  leaners  or  twiners?  I 
believe  the  very  nursing-bottle  leaned 
heavily  against  Letty  when  she  lay  on  her 
infant  pillow.  I  did  n't  know  her  when  she 
was  a  child,  but  I  believe  that  when  she 
was  eight  all  the  other  children  of  three 
and  five  in  the  village  looked  to  her  for 
support  and  guidance!" 

"It's  a  great  vocation  —  that  of  being 
a  prop,"  smiled  the  minister,  as  he  peeled 
a  red  Baldwin  apple,  carefully  preserving 
the  spiral  and  eating  it  first. 

"I  suppose  the  wobbly  vine  thinks  it's 
grand  to  be  a  stout  trellis  when  it  needs 
one  to  climb  on,  but  does  n't  the  trellis 
ever  want  to  twine,  I  wonder?"  And 
Reba's  tone  was  doubtful. 

"Even  the  trellis  leans  against  the 
house,  Reba." 

"Well,  Letty  never  gets  a  chance  either 

30 


(ft  Cfymtma*  Caxb 

to  lean  or  to  twine!  Her  family,  her 
friends,  her  acquaintances,  even  the 
stranger  within  her  gates,  will  pass  trees, 
barber  poles,  telephone  and  telegraph 
poles,  convenient  corners  of  buildings, 
fence  posts,  ladders,  and  lightning  rods  for 
the  sake  of  winding  their  weakness  around 
her  strength.  When  she  sits  down  from 
sheer  exhaustion,  they  come  and  prop 
themselves  against  her  back.  If  she  goes 
to  bed,  they  climb  up  on  the  footboard, 
hang  a  drooping  head,  and  look  her  wist- 
fully in  the  eye  for  sympathy.  Prop  on, 
prop  ever,  seems  to  be  the  underlying  law 
of  the  universe!" 

"Poor  Reba!  She  is  talking  of  Letty 
and  thinking  of  herself!"  And  the  min- 
ister's eye  twinkled. 

"Well,  a  little!"  admitted  his  wife; 
"  but  I  'm  only  a  village  prop,  not  a  family 
31 


(ft  Cfywtmto  Carb 

one.  Where  you  are  concerned"  —  and 
she  administered  an  affectionate  pat  to  his 
cheek  as  she  rose  from  her  chair  —  "  I  'm 
a  trellis  that  leans  against  a  rock!" 


Ill 

Letitia  Boynton's  life  had  been  rather  a 
drab  one  as  seen  through  other  people's 
eyes,  but  it  had  never  seemed  so  to  her  till 
within  the  last  few  years.  Her  own  father 
had  been  the  village  doctor,  but  of  him  she 
had  no  memory.  Her  mother's  second 
marriage  to  a  venerable  country  lawyer, 
John  Gilman,  had  brought  a  kindly,  ineffi- 
cient stepfather  into  the  family,  a  man 
who  speedily  became  an  invalid  needing 
constant  nursing.  The  birth  of  David 
33 


&§t  (Romans  of 

when  Letty  was  three  years  old,  brought  a 
new  interest  into  the  household,  and  the 
two  children  grew  to  be  fast  friends;  but 
when  Mrs.  Gilman  died,  and  Letty  found 
herself  at  eighteen  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  the  nurse  of  her  aged  stepfather, 
and  the  only  guardian  of  a  boy  of  fifteen, 
life  became  difficult.  More  difficult  still  it 
became  when  the  old  lawyer  died,  for  he 
at  least  had  been  a  sort  of  fictitious  head 
of  the  family  and  his  mere  existence  kept 
David  within  bounds. 

David  was  a  lively,  harum-scarum, 
handsome  youth,  good  at  his  lessons,  pop- 
ular with  his  companions,  always  in  a 
scrape,  into  which  he  was  generally  drawn 
by  the  minister's  son,  so  the  neighbors 
thought.  At  any  rate,  Dick  Larrabee,  as 
David's  senior,  received  the  lion's  share  of 
the  blame  when  mischief  was  abroad.  If 
34 


(ft  CfyxxstmcM  Catb 

Parson  Larrabee's  boy  could  n't  behave 
any  better  than  an  unbelieving  black- 
smith's, a  Methodist  farmer's,  or  a  Bap- 
tist storekeeper's,  what  was  the  use  of 
claiming  superior  efficacy  for  the  Congre- 
gational form  of  belief? 

"Dick's  father's  never  succeeded  in 
bringing  him  into  the  church,  though  he 's 
worked  on  him  from  the  time  he  was  knee- 
high  to  a  toad,"  said  Mrs.  Popham. 

"P'raps  his  mother  kind  o'  vaccinated 
him  with  religion  'stid  o'  leavin'  him  to 
take  it  the  natural  way,  as  the  ol'  sayin' 
is,"  was  her  husband's  response.  "The 
first  Mis'  Larrabee  was  as  good  as  gold, 
but  she  may  have  overdone  the  trick  a 
little  mite,  mebbe;  and  what's  more,  I 
kind  o'  suspicion  the  parson  thinks  so 
himself.  He  ain't  never  been  quite  the 
same  sence  Dick  left  home,  'cept  in 
35 


*&%t  (Romance  of 

preachin' ;  an'  I  tell  you,  Maria,  his  high- 
water  mark  there  is  higher  'n  ever.  Abel 
Dunn  o'  Boston  walked  home  from  meet- 
in'  with  me  Thanksgivin',  an',  says  he, 
takin'  off  his  hat  an'  moppin'  his  forehead, 
'Osh,'  says  he,  'does  your  minister  preach 
like  that  every  Sunday? '  '  No,'  says  I,  '  he 
don't.  If  he  did  we  could  n't  stan'  it!  He 
preaches  like  that  about  once  a  month, 
an'  we  don't  care  what  he  says  the  rest  o' 
the  time.' " 

"Well,  so  far  as  boys  are  concerned, 
preachin'  ain't  so  reliable,  for  behavin' 
purposes,  as  a  good  young  alder  switch," 
was  the  opinion  of  Mrs.  Popham,  her  chil- 
dren being  of  the  comatose  kind,  whose 
minds  had  never  been  illuminated  by  the 
dazzling  idea  of  disobedience. 

"  Land  sakes,  Maria!  There  ain't  alders 
enough  on  the  river-bank  to  switch  reli- 
36 


(ft  CfyxiBtmoB  Caxb 

gion  into  a  boy  like  Dick  Larrabee.  It's 
got  to  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  as  the 
oP  say  in'  is,  but  I  guess  I  don't  mean  thief, 
I  guess  I  mean  star:  it's  got  to  come  kind 
o'  like  a  star  in  a  dark  night.  If  the  whole 
village,  'generate  an'  onregenerate,  had  n't 
'a'  kep'  on  naggin'  an'  hectorin'  an'  criti- 
cizin'  them  two  boys,  Dick  an'  Dave,  — 
carryin'  tales  an'  multiplyin'  of  'em  by 
two,  '  ong  root,1  as  the  oP  say  in'  is,  —  I 
dare  say  they'd  'a'  both  been  here  yet; 
'stid  o'  roamin'  roun'  the  earth  seekin' 
whom  they  may  devour." 

There  was  considerable  truth  in  Ossian 
Popham's  remark,  as  Letty  could  have 
testified;  for  the  conduct  of  the  Boyn- 
ton-Gilman  household,  as  well  as  that 
of  the  minister,  had  been  continually 
under  inspection  and  discussion. 

Nothing  could  remain  long  hidden  in 
37 


G>$t  (Romans  of 

Beulah.  Nobody  spied,  nobody  pried, 
nobody  listened  at  doors  or  windows,  no- 
body owned  a  microscope,  nobody  took 
any  particular  notice  of  events,  or  if  they 
did  they  preserved  an  attitude  of  profound 
indifference  while  doing  it,  —  yet  every- 
thing was  known  sooner  or  later.  The 
amount  of  the  fish  and  meat  bill,  the  pre- 
cise extent  of  credit,  the  number  of  letters 
in  the  post,  the  amount  of  fuel  burned, 
the  number  of  absences  from  church  and 
prayer-meeting,  the  calls  or  visits  made 
and  received,  the  hours  of  arrival  or  de- 
parture, the  source  of  all  incomes,  —  these 
details  were  the  common  property  of  the 
village.  It  even  took  cognizance  of  more 
subtle  things;  for  it  observed  and  re- 
corded the  fluctuations  of  all  love  affairs, 
and  the  fluctuations  also  in  the  religious 
experiences  of  various  persons  not  always 
3S 


(ft  Cfycistnt&s  Caxb 

in  spiritual  equilibrium;  for  the  soul  was 
an  object  of  scrutiny  in  Beulah,  as  well 
as  mind,  body,  and  estate. 

Letty  Boynton  used  to  feel  that  nothing 
was  exclusively  her  own ;  that  she  belonged 
to  Beulah  part  and  parcel ;  but  Dick  Lar- 
rabee  was  far  more  restive  under  the  vil- 
lage espionage  than  were  she  and  David. 

It  was  natural  that  David  should  want 
to  leave  Beulah  and  make  his  way  in  the 
world,  and  his  sister  did  not  oppose  it. 
Dick's  circumstances  were  different.  He 
had  inherited  a  small  house  and  farm  from 
his  mother,  had  enjoyed  a  college  educa- 
tion, and  had  been  offered  a  share  in  a 
good  business  in  a  city  twelve  miles  away. 
He  left  Beulah  because  he  hated  it.  He 
left  because  he  could  not  endure  his  fa- 
ther's gentle  remonstrances  or  the  be- 
wilderment in  his  stepmother's  eyes.  She 
39 


fyty  (Romance  of 

was  a  newcomer  in  the  household  and  her 
glance  seemed  to  say:  "Why  on  earth  do 
you  behave  so  badly  to  your  father  when 
you're  such  a  delightful  chap?"  He  left 
because  Deacon  Todd  had  prayed  for  him 
publicly  at  a  Christian  Endeavor  meeting; 
because  Mrs.  Popham  had  circulated  a 
wholly  baseless  scandal  about  him;  and 
finally  because  in  his  young  misery  the 
only  being  who  could  have  comforted  him 
by  joining  her  hapless  fortunes  to  his  had 
refused  to  do  so.  He  did  n't  know  why. 
He  had  always  counted  on  Letty  when  the 
time  should  come  to  speak  the  word.  He 
had  shown  his  heart  in  everything  but 
words;  what  more  did  a  girl  want?  Of 
course,  if  any  one  preferred  a  purely  fan- 
tastic duty  to  a  man's  love,  and  allowed  a 
scapegrace  brother  to  foist  two  red-faced, 
squalling  babies  on  her,  there  was  nothing 
40 


(§  Cfymtma*  Caxb 

to  be  said.  So,  in  this  frame  of  mind  he 
had  had  one  flaming,  passionate,  wrong- 
headed  scene  with  his  father,  and  strode 
out  of  Beulah  with  dramatic  gestures  of 
shaking  its  dust  off  his  feet.  His  father, 
roused  for  once  from  his  lifelong  pa- 
tience, had  been  rather  terrible  in  that 
last  scene;  so  terrible  that  he  had  never 
forgiven  himself,  or  really  believed  him- 
self fully  forgiven  by  God,  though  his  son 
had  alienated  half  the  village  and  nearly 
rent  the  parish  in  twain  by  his  conduct. 
As  for  Letty,  she  held  her  peace.  She 
could  only  hope  that  the  minister  and  his 
wife  suspected  nothing,  and  she  was  sure 
of  Beulah's  point  of  view.  That  a  girl 
would  never  give  up  a  suitor,  if  she  had 
any  hope  of  tying  him  to  her  for  life,  was 
a  popular  form  of  belief  in  the  commun- 
ity; and  strangely  enough  it  was  chiefly  the 
41 


£§e  (Romans  of 

women,  not  the  men,  who  made  it  current. 
Now  and  then  a  soft-hearted  and  chival- 
rous male  would  observe  indulgently  of 
some  village  beauty,  "  I  should  n't  wonder 
a  mite  if  she  could  'a'  had  Bill  for  the  ask- 
in'";  but  this  opinion  would  be  met  by 
such  a  chorus  of  feminine  incredulity  that 
its  author  generally  withdrew  it  as  un- 
sound and  untenable. 

It  was  then,  when  Dick  had  gone  away, 
that  the  days  had  grown  drab  and  longf 
but  the  twins  kept  Letty's  inexperienced 
hands  busy,  though  in  the  first  year  she 
had  the  help  of  old  Miss  Clarissa  Perry, 
a  childless  expert  in  the  bringing-up  of 
babies. 

The  friendship  of  Reba  Larrabee,  so 

bright  and  cheery  and  comprehending, 

was  a  never-ending  solace.    There  was 

nothing  of  the  martyr  about  Letty.   She 

42 


(21  Cfywtnxas  Caxb 

was  not  wholly  resigned  to  her  lot,  and  to 
tell  the  truth  she  did  not  intend  to  be,  for 
a  good  many  years  yet. 

"  I  'm  not  a  minister,  but  I  'm  the  wife  of 
a  minister,  which  is  the  next  best  thing," 
Mrs.  Larrabee  used  to  say.  "I  tell  you, 
Letty,  there's  no  use  in  human  creatures 
being  resigned  till  their  bodies  are  fairly 
worn  out  with  fighting.  When  you  can't 
think  of  another  mortal  thing  to  do,  be 
resigned;  but  I'm  convinced  that  the 
Lord  is  ashamed  of  us  when  we  fold  our 
hands  too  soon!" 

"You  were  born  courageous,  Reba!" 
And  Letty  would  look  admiringly  at  the 
rosy  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  of  her  friend. 

"My  blood  circulates  freely;  that  helps 

me  a  lot.  Everybody's  blood  circulates  in 

Racine,  Wisconsin."  — And  the  minister's 

wife    laughed    genially.     "Yours,    here- 

43 


&%t  (Romans  of 

abouts,  freezes  up  in  your  six  months  of 
cold  weather,  and  when  it  begins  to  thaw 
out  the  snow  is  ready  to  fall  again.  That 
sort  of  thing  induces  depression,  although 
no  mere  climate  would  account  for  Mrs. 
Popham.  —  Ossian  said  to  Luther  the 
other  day:  'Maria  ain't  hardly  to  blame, 
parson.  She  come  from  a  gloomy  stock. 
The  Ladds  was  all  gloomy,  root  and 
branch.  They  say  that  the  Ladd  babies 
was  always  discouraged  two  days  after 
they  was  born.' " 

The  cause  of  Letty's  chief  heartache, 
the  one  that  she  could  reveal  to  nobody, 
was  that  her  brother  should  leave  her  now- 
adays so  completely  to  her  own  resources. 
She  recalled  the  time  when  he  came  home 
from  Boston,  pale,  haggard,  ashamed,  and 
told  her  of  his  marriage,  months  before. 
She  could  read  in  his  lack-lustre  eyes,  and 
44 


(&  C§x\8tma*  Caxb 

hear  in  his  voice,  the  absence  of  love,  the 
fear  of  the  future.  That  was  bad  enough, 
but  presently  he  said:  "Letty,  there's 
more  to  tell.  I  Ve  no  money,  and  no  place 
to  put  my  wife,  but  there 's  a  child  coming. 
Can  I  bring  her  here  till  —  afterwards? 
You  won't  like  her,  but  she 's  so  ailing  and 
despondent  just  now  that  I  think  she'll 
behave  herself,  and  I  '11  take  her  away  as 
soon  as  she's  able  to  travel.  She  would 
never  stay  here  in  the  country,  anyway; 
you  could  n't  hire  her  to  do  it." 

She  came:  black-haired,  sullen-faced 
Eva,  with  a  vulgar  beauty  of  her  own,  much 
damaged  by  bad  temper,  discontent,  and 
illness.  Oh,  those  terrible  weeks  for  Letty, 
hiding  her  own  misery,  putting  on  a  brave 
face  with  the  neighbors,  keeping  the  un- 
welcome sister-in-law  in  the  background. 

It  was  bitterly  cold,  and  Eva  raged 
45 


t>§t  (Romans  of 

against  the  climate,  the  house,  the  lack  of 
a  servant,  the  absence  of  gayety,  and 
above  all  at  the  prospect  of  motherhood. 
Her  resentment  against  David,  for  some 
reason  unknown  to  Letty,  was  deep  and 
profound  and  she  made  no  secret  of  it; 
until  the  outraged  Letty,  goaded  into 
speech  one  day,  said:  "Listen,  Eva!  Da- 
vid brought  you  here  because  his  sister's 
house  was  the  proper  place  for  you  just 
now.  I  don't  know  why  you  married  each 
other,  but  you  did,  and  it 's  evidently  a  fail- 
ure. I'm  going  to  stand  by  David  and 
see  you  through  this  trouble,  but  while 
you  're  under  my  roof  you  '11  have  to  speak 
respectfully  of  my  brother;  not  so  much 
because  he's  my  brother,  but  because  he's 
your  husband  and  the  father  of  the  child 
that's  coming:  —  do  you  understand?" 
Letty  had  a  good  deal  of  red  in  her 
46 


(ft  C§x\8tm<X8  Caxb 

bronze  hair  and  her  brown  eyes  were  as 
capable  of  flashing  fire  as  Eva's  black 
ones;  so  the  girl  not  only  refrained  from 
venting  her  spleen  upon  the  absent  David, 
but  ceased  to  talk  altogether,  and  the 
gloom  in  the  house  was  as  black  as  if 
Mrs.  Popham  and  all  her  despondent  an- 
cestors were  living  under  its  roof. 

The  good  doctor  called  often  and  did 
his  best,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  lifting 
his  eyebrows  as  he  said :  "Let  her  work  out 
her  own  salvation.  I  doubt  if  she  can, 
but  we'll  give  her  the  chance.  If  the  prob- 
lem can  be  solved,  the  child  will  do  it." 


IV 

Well,  the  problem  never  was  solved, 
never  in  this  world,  at  least;  and  those 
who  were  in  the  sitting-room  chamber 
when  Eva  was  shown  her  two  babies  lying 
side  by  side  on  a  pillow,  never  forgot  the 
quick  glance  of  horrified  incredulity,  or 
the  shriek  of  aversion  with  which  she 
greeted  them. 

Letty  had  a  sense  of  humor,  and  it  must 
be  confessed  that  when  the  scorned  and 
discarded  babies  were  returned  to  her,  and 
48 


(ft  C§n*tm<X8  Caxb 

she  sat  by  the  kitchen  stove  trying  to  plan 
a  second  bottle,  a  second  cradle,  and  see 
how  far  the  expected  baby  could  divide  its 
modest  outfit  with  the  unexpected  one, 
she  burst  into  a  fit  of  hysterical  laughter 
mingled  with  an  outpour  of  tears. 

The  doctor  came  in  from  the  sick-room 
puzzled  and  crestfallen  from  his  interview 
with  an  entirely  new  specimen  of  woman- 
kind. He  had  brought  Letty  and  David 
into  the  world  and  soothed  the  last  days  of 
all  her  family,  and  now  in  this  tragedy  — 
for  tragedy  it  was  —  he  was  her  only  con- 
fidant and  adviser. 

Letty  looked  at  him,  the  tears  stream- 
ing from  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Doctor  Lee,  Doctor  Lee!  If  an 
overruling  Providence  could  smile,  would 
n't  He  smile  now?  David  and  Eva  never 
wanted  to  marry  each   other,  I  'm  sure 

49 


*tfy  (Romance  of 

of  it,  and  the  last  thing  they  desired  was 
a  child.  Now  there  are  two  of  them. 
Their  father  is  away,  their  mother  won't 
look  at  them!  What  will  become  of  me 
until  Eva  gets  well  and  behaves  like  a  hu- 
man being?  I  never  promised  to  be  an 
aunt  to  twins;  I  never  did  like  twins;  I 
think  they're  downright  vulgar!" 

"Waly  waly!  bairns  are  bonny: 
One's  enough  and  twa's  ower  mony," 

quoted  the  doctor.  "It's  worse  even  than 
you  think,  my  poor  Letty,  for  the  girl 
■can't  get  well,  because  she  won't!  She  has 
gritted  her  teeth,  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall,  and  refused  her  food.  It's  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end.  You  are  far  likelier  to  be  a 
foster  mother  than  an  aunt!" 

Letty' s  face  changed  and  softened  and 
her  color  rose.    She  leaned  over  the  two 
pink,  crumpled  creatures,  still  twitching 
50 


'COME   TO   YOUR   AUNT   LETTY    THEN   AND   BE 
MOTHERED!"    SHE   SOBBED 


(ft  CfyxxBtm&B  Catb 

nervously  with  the  amazement  and  dis- 
comfort of  being  alive. 

"  Come  to  your  Aunt  Letty  then  and  be 
mothered!"  she  sobbed,  lifting  the  pillow 
and  taking  it,  with  its  double  burden,  into 
her  arms.  "  You  shan't  suffer,  poor  inno- 
cent darlings,  even  if  those  who  brought 
you  into  the  world  turn  away  from  you! 
Come  to  your  Aunt  Letty  and  be  moth- 
ered!" 

"That's  right,  that's  right,"  said  the 
doctor  over  a  lump  in  his  throat.  "We 
must  n't  let  the  babies  pay  the  penalty  of 
their  parents'  sins;  and  there's  one  thing 
that  may  soften  your  anger  a  little,  Letty : 
Eva's  not  right;  she's  not  quite  respon- 
sible. There  are  cases  where  motherhood, 
that  should  be  a  joy,  brings  nothing  but 
mental  torture  and  perversion  of  instinct. 
Try  and  remember  that,  if  it  helps  you 
51 


G>$t  (Romance  of 

any.  I  '11  drop  in  every  two  or  three  hours 
and  I  '11  write  David  to  come  at  once.  He 
must  take  his  share  of  the  burden." 

Well,  David  came,  but  Eva  was  in  her 
coffin.  He  was  grave  and  silent,  and  it 
could  not  be  said  that  he  showed  a  trace  of 
fatherly  pride.  He  was  very  young,  it  is 
true,  thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself,  very 
unhappy,  and  anxious  about  his  new 
cares;  but  Letty  could  not  help  thinking 
that  he  regarded  the  twins  as  a  sort  of 
personal  insult,  —  perhaps  not  on  their 
own  part,  nor  on  Eva's,  but  as  an  accident 
that  might  have  been  prevented  by  a  com- 
petent Providence.  At  any  rate,  he  car- 
ried himself  as  a  man  with  a  grievance, 
and  when  he  looked  at  his  offspring,  which 
was  seldom,  it  seemed  to  Letty  that  he 
regarded  the  second  one  as  an  unnecessary 
intruder  and  cherished  a  secret  resent- 
52 


(g.  C§x\*tm<x*  Caxb 

ment  at  its  audacity  in  coming  to  this 
planet  uninvited.  He  went  back  to  his 
work  in  Boston  without  its  having  crossed 
his  mind  that  anybody  but  his  sister  could 
take  care  of  his  children.  He  did  n't  really 
regard  them  as  children  or  human  beings ; 
it  takes  a  woman's  vision  to  make  that 
sort  of  leap  into  the  future.  Until  a  new- 
born baby  can  show  some  personal  beauty, 
evince  some  intellect,  stop  squirming  and 
squealing,  and  exhibit  enough  self-control 
to  let  people  sleep  at  night,  it  is  not,  as 
a  rule,  persona  grata  to  any  one  but  its 
mother. 

David  did  say  vaguely  to  Letty  when  he 
was  leaving,  that  he  hoped  "  they  would  be 
good,"  the  screams  that  rent  the  air  at  the 
precise  moment  of  farewell  rather  giving 
the  lie  to  his  hopes. 

Letty  was  struggling  to  end  the  inter- 
53 


G,%t  (Romance  of 

view  without  breaking  down,  for  she  was 
worn  out  nervously  as  well  as  physically, 
and  thought  if  she  could  only  be  alone 
with  her  problems  and  her  cares  she  would 
rather  write  to  David  than  tell  him  her 
mind  face  to  face. 

Brother  and  sister  held  each  other 
tightly  for  a  moment,  kissed  each  other 
good-bye,  and  then  Letty  watched  Osh 
Popham's  sleigh  slipping  off  with  David 
into  the  snowy  distance,  the  merry  tinkle 
of  the  bells  adding  to  the  sadness  in  her 
dreary  heart.  Dick  gone  yesterday,  Dave 
to-day;  Beulah  without  Dick  and  Dave! 
The  two  joys  of  her  life  were  missing  and 
in  their  places  two  unknown  babies  whose 
digestive  systems  were  going  to  need  con- 
stant watching,  according  to  Dr.  Lee. 
Then  she  went  about  with  set  lips,  doing 
the  last  sordid  things  that  death  brings  in 
54 


(ft  C§x\*tm<XB  Catb 

its  wake;  doing  them  as  she  had  seen  her 
mother  do  before  her.  She  threw  away  the 
husks  in  Eva's  under  mattress  and  put 
fresh  ones  in;  she  emptied  the  feathers 
from  the  feather  bed  and  pillows  and  aired 
them  in  the  sun  while  she  washed  the 
ticking ;  she  scrubbed  the  paint  in  the  sick- 
room, and  in  between  her  tasks  learned 
from  Clarissa  Perry  the  whole  process  of 
bringing  up  babies  by  hand. 

That  was  three  years  ago.  At  first 
David  had  sent  ten  dollars  a  month  from 
his  slender  earnings,  never  omitting  it  save 
for  urgent  reasons.  He  evidently  thought 
of  the  twins  as  "company"  for  his  sister 
and  their  care  a  pleasant  occupation,  since 
she  had  "almost"  a  living  income;  taking 
in  a  few  coats  to  make,  just  to  add  an  oc- 
casional luxury  to  the  bare  necessities  of 
life  provided  by  her  mother's  will. 
55 


(ft  C§x\*tm<XB  Caxb 

His  letters  were  brief,  dispirited,  and 
infrequent,  but  they  had  not  ceased  alto- 
gether till  within  the  last  few  months, 
during  which  Letty's  to  him  had  been 
returned  from  Boston  with  "Not  found" 
scribbled  on  the  envelopes. 

The  firm  in  whose  care  Letty  had  lat- 
terly addressed  him  simply  wrote,  in  an- 
swer to  her  inquiries,  that  Mr.  Gilman  had 
not  been  in  their  employ  for  some  time 
and  they  had  no  idea  of  his  whereabouts. 

The  rest  was  silence. 


%„»N»»"'/„, 


V 

A  good  deal  of  water  had  run  under  Beu- 
lah  Bridge  since  Letty  Boynton  had  sat  at 
her  window  on  a  December  evening  un- 
consciously furnishing  copy  and  illustra- 
tion for  a  Christmas  card;  yet  there  had 
been  very  few  outward  changes  in  the 
village.  Winter  had  melted  into  spring, 
burst  into  summer,  faded  into  autumn, 
lapsed  into  winter  again,  —  the  same  old, 
ever-recurring  pageant  in  the  world  of 
57 


G>$>t  (Romance  of 

Nature,  and  the  same  procession  of  inci- 
dents in  the  neighborhood  life. 

The  harvest  moon  and  the  hunter's 
moon  had  come  and  gone;  the  first  frost, 
the  family  dinners  and  reunions  at  Thanks- 
giving, the  first  snowfall;  and  now,  as 
Christmas  approached,  the  same  holiday 
spirit  was  abroad  in  the  air,  slightly  modi- 
fied as  it  passed  by  Mrs.  Popham's  mourn- 
ful visage. 

One  or  two  babies  had  swelled  the  cen- 
sus, giving  the  minister  hope  of  a  larger 
Sunday-School;  one  or  two  of  the  very 
aged  neighbors  had  passed  into  the  be- 
yond ;  and  a  few  romantic  and  enterprising 
young  farmers  had  espoused  wives,  among 
them  Osh  Popham's  son. 

The  manner  of  their  choice  was  not  en- 
tirely to  the  liking  of  the  village.  Digby 
Popham  had  married  into  the  rival  church 
58 


(&  CfyxiBtmca  Cat* 

and  as  his  betrothed  was  a  masterful 
young  lady  it  was  feared  that  Digby  would 
leave  Mr.  Larrabee's  flock  to  worship  with 
his  wife.  Another  had  married  without 
visible  means  of  support,  a  proceeding  al- 
ways to  be  regretted  by  thoroughly  pru- 
dent persons  over  fifty;  and  the  third, 
Deacon  Todd's  eldest  son,  had  somehow 
or  other  met  a  siren  from  Vermont  and 
insisted  on  wedding  her  when  there  were 
plenty  of  marriageable  girls  in  Beulah. 

"I've  no  patience  with  such  actions!" 
grumbled  Mrs.  Popham.  "Young  folks 
are  so  full  of  notions  nowadays  that  they 
look  for  change  and  excitement  every- 
wheres.  I  s'pose  James  Todd  thinks  it's  a 
decent,  respectable  way  of  actin',  to  turn 
his  back  on  the  girls  he 's  been  brought  up 
an'  gone  to  school  with,  and  court  some- 
body he  never  laid  eyes  on  till  a  year  ago. 
59 


&§t  (Romance  of 

It's  a  free  country,  but  I  must  say  I  don't 
think  it's  very  refined  for  a  man  to  go 
clear  off  somewheres  and  marry  a  perfect 
stranger!" 

Births,  marriages,  and  deaths,  however, 
paled  into  insignificance  compared  with 
the  spectacular  debut  of  the  minister's 
wife  as  a  writer  and  embellisher  of  Christ- 
mas cards,  two  at  least  having  been  seen 
at  the  local  milliner's  store.  How  many 
she  had  composed,  and  how  many  of  them 
(said  Mrs.  Popham)  might  have  been  re- 
jected, nobody  knew,  though  there  was 
much  speculation ;  and  more  than  one  citi- 
zen remarked  on  the  size  of .  the  daily 
package  of  mail  matter  handed  out  by  the 
rural  delivery  man  at  the  parsonage  gate. 

No  one  but  Mrs.  Larrabee  and  Letty 
Boynton  were  in  possession  of  all  the 
thrilling  details  attending  the  public  ap- 
60 


(ft  Cfyxx*tm<x*  Cavb 

pearance  of  these  works  of  art;  the  words 
and  letters  of  appreciation,  the  commen- 
dation, and  the  occasional  blows  to  pride 
that  attended  their  acceptance  and  publi- 
cation. 

Mrs.  Larrabee's  first  attempt,  with  the 
sketch  of  Letty  at  the  window  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,  her  hearth- fire  aglow,  her  heart 
and  her  door  open  that  Love  might  enter 
in  if  the  Christ  Child  came  down  the 
snowy  street,  —  this  went  to  the  Excelsior 
Card  Company  in  a  large  Western  city, 
and  the  following  correspondence  ensued : 

Mrs.  Luther  Larrabee, 

Beulah,  N.H. 
Dear  Madam:  — 

Your  letter  bears  a  well-known  postmark,  for 
my  father  and  my  grandfather  were  born  and 
lived  in  New  Hampshire,  "up  Beulah  way."  I 
accept  your  verses  because  of  the  beauty  of  the 
picture  that  accompanied   them,   and  because 

61 


Gsfy  (Romance  of 


Christmas  means  more  than  holly  and  plum  pud- 
ding and  gift-laden  trees  to  me,  for  I  am  a  reli- 
gious man,  — a  ministerial  father  and  three  family- 
deacons  saw  to  that,  though  it  does  n't  always 
work  that  way !  —  Frankly,  I  do  not  expect  your 
card  to  have  a  wide  appeal,  so  I  offer  you  only 
five  dollars. 

A  Christmas  card,  my  dear  madam,  must 
have  a  greeting,  and  yours  has  none.  If  the  pic- 
tured room  were  a  real  room,  and  some  one  who 
had  seen  or  lived  in  it  should  recognize  it,  it  would 
attract  his  eye,  but  we  cannot  manufacture  cards 
to  meet  such  romantic  improbabilities.  I  am  em- 
boldened to  ask  you  (because  you  live  in  Beulah) 
if  you  will  not  paint  the  outside  of  some  lonely, 
little  New  Hampshire  cottage,  as  humble  as  you 
like,  and  make  me  some  more  verses ;  something, 
say,  about  "the  folks  back  home." 

Sincerely  yours, 

Reuben  Small. 

Beulah,  N.H. 
Dear  Mr.  Small:  — 

I  accept  your  offer  of  five  dollars  for  my  maiden 
effort  in  Christmas  cards  with  thanks,  and  will 
try  my  hand  at  something  more  popular.    I  am 

62 


(ft  C$t\*imcM  Caxb 

not  above  liking  to  make  a  "wide  appeal,"  but 
the  subject  you  propose  is  rather  a  staggering 
one,  because  you  accompany  it  with  a  phrase 
lacking  rhythm,  and  difficult  to  rhyme.  You  will 
at  once  see,  by  running  through  the  alphabet, 
that  "roam"  is  the  only  serviceable  rhyme  for 
"home,"  but  the  union  of  the  two  suggests  jingle 
or  doggerel.  I  defy  any  minor  poet  when  fur- 
nished with  such  a  phrase,  to  refrain  from  burst- 
ing at  once  into :  — 

No  matter  where  you  travel,  no  matter  where  you  roam, 
You  '11  never  dum-di-dum-di-dee 
The  folks  back  home. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Reba  Larrabee. 

P.S.  On  second  thought  I  believe  James 
Whitcomb  Riley  could  do  it  and  overcome  the 
difficulties,  but  alas!   I  have  not  his  touch! 

Dear  Mrs.  Larrabee:  — 

We  never  refuse  verses  because  they  are  too 
good  for  the  public.  Nothing  is  too  good  for  the 
public,  but  the  public  must  be  the  judge  of  what 
pleases  it. 

"The  folks  back  home"  is  a  phrase  that  will 
strike  the  eye  and  ear  of  thousands  of  wandering 
63 


&§t  (Romance  of 


sons  and  daughters.  They  will  choose  that  card 
from  the  heaped-up  masses  on  the  counters  and 
send  it  to  every  State  in  the  Union.  If  you  will 
glance  at  your  first  card  you  will  see  that  though 
people  may  read  it  they  will  always  leave  it  on 
the  counter.  I  want  my  cards  on  counters,  by 
the  thousand,  but  I  don't  intend  that  they  should 
be  left  there! 

Make  an  effort,  dear  Mrs.  Larrabee!  I  could 
get  "the  folks  back  home"  done  here  in  the 
office  in  half  an  hour,  but  I  'm  giving  you  the 
chance  because  you  live  in  Beulah,  New  Hamp- 
shire, and  because  you  make  beautiful  pictures. 
Sincerely  yours, 

Reuben  Small. 

Dear  Mr.  Small:  — 

I  enclose  a  colored  sketch  of  the  outside  of  the 
cottage  whose  living-room  I  used  in  my  first  card. 
I  chose  it  because  I  love  the  person  who  lives  in  it ; 
because  it  always  looks  beautiful  in  the  snow,  and 
because  the  tree  is  so  picturesque.  The  fact  that 
it  is  gray  for  lack  of  paint  may  remind  a  casual 
wanderer  that  there  is  something  to  do,  now  and 
then,  for  the  "folks  back  home."  The  verse  is 
just  as  bad  as  I  thought  it  would  be.    It  seems 

64 


incredible  that  any  one  should  buy  it,  but  ours  is 
a  big  country  and  there  are  many  kinds  of  people 
living  in  it,  so  who  knows?  Why  don't  you  accept 
my  picture  and  then  you  write  the  card?  I  could 
not  put  my  initials  on  this!  They  are  unknown, 
to  be  sure,  and  I  should  want  them  to  be,  if  you 
use  it! 

Sincerely  yours, 

Reba  Larrabee. 

Now  here 's  a  Christmas  greeting 

To  the  "folks  back  home." 
It  comes  to  you  across  the  space, 

Dear  folks  back  home! 
I  've  searched  the  wide  world  over, 

But  no  matter  where  I  roam, 
No  friends  are  like  the  old  friends, 

No  folks  like  those  back  home! 

Dear  Mrs.  Larrabee:  — 

I  gave  you  five  dollars  for  the  first  picture  and 
verses,  which  you,  as  a  writer,  regard  more  highly 
than  I,  who  am  merely  a  manufacturer.  Please 
accept  twenty  dollars  for  "The  Folks  Back 
Home,"  on  which  I  hope  to  make  up  my  loss  on 
the  first  card!  I  insist  on  signing  the  despised 
verse  with  your  initials.    In  case  R.  L.  should 

65 


Z§t  (Romance  of 


later  come  to  mean  something,  you  will  be  glad 
that  a  few  thousand  people  have  seen  it. 
Sincerely, 

Reuben  Small. 

The  Hessian  soldier  andirons,  the  por- 
trait over  the  Boynton  mantel,  and  even 
Letty  Boynton's  cape  were  identified  on 
the  first  card,  sooner  or  later,  but  it  was 
obvious  that  Mrs.  Larrabee  had  to  have 
a  picture  for  her  verses  and  could  n't  be 
supposed  to  make  one  up  "out  of  her 
head";  though  Osh  Popham  declared  it 
had  been  done  again  and  again  in  other 
parts  of  the  world.  Also  it  was  agreed 
that,  as  Letty's  face  was  not  distinguish- 
able, nobody  outside  of  Beulah  could  rec- 
ognize her  by  her  cape;  and  that  any- 
how it  could  n't  make  much  difference,  for 
if  anybody  wanted  to  spend  fifteen  cents 
on  a  card  he  would  certainly  buy  the  one 
66 


(ft  Cfyxi*tm&8  Caxb 

about  "the  folks  back  home."  The  pop- 
ularity of  this  was  established  by  the  fact 
that  it  was  selling,  not  only  in  Beulah  and 
Greentown,  but  in  Boston,  and  in  Racine, 
Wisconsin,  and,  it  was  rumored,  even  in 
Chicago.  The  village  milliner  in  Beulah 
had  disposed  of  twenty-seven  copies  in 
thirteen  days  and  the  minister's  wife  was 
universally  conceded  to  be  the  most  cele- 
brated person  in  the  State  of  New  Hamp- 
shire. 

Letty  Boynton  had  an  uncomfortable 
moment  when  she  saw  the  first  card,  but 
common  sense  assured  her  that  outside  of 
a  handful  of  neighbors  no  one  would  iden- 
tify her  home  surroundings ;  meantime  she 
was  proud  of  Reba's  financial  and  artistic 
triumph  in  "  The  Folks  Back  Home  "  and 
generously  glad  that  she  had  no  share  in  it. 

Twice  during  the  autumn  David  had 
67 


£§e  (Romance  of 

broken  his  silence,  but  only  to  send  her  a 
postal  from  some  Western  town,  telling 
her  that  he  should  have  no  regular  ad- 
dress for  a  time;  that  he  was  traveling 
for  a  publishing  firm  and  felt  ill-adapted 
to  the  business.  He  hoped  that  she  and 
the  children  were  well,  for  he  himself  was 
not;  etc.,  etc. 

The  twins  had  been  photographed  by 
Osh  Popham,  who  was  Jack  of  all  trades 
and  master  of  many,  and  a  sight  of  their 
dimpled  charms,  curly  heads,  and  straight 
little  bodies  would  have  gladdened  any 
father's  heart,  Letty  thought.  However, 
she  scorned  to  win  David  back  by  any 
such  specious  means.  If  he  did  n't  care  to 
know  whether  his  children  were  hump- 
backed, bow  -  legged,  cross  -  eyed,  club- 
footed,  or  feeble-minded,  why  should  she 
enlighten  him?  This  was  her  usual  frame 
6S 


(ft  Cfymtmcti  Caxb 

of  mind,  but  in  these  last  days  of  the  year 
how  she  longed  to  pop  the  bewitching  pho- 
tographs and  Reba's  Christmas  cards  into 
an  envelope  and  send  them  to  David. 

But  where?  No  word  at  all  for  weeks 
and  weeks,  and  then  only  a  postal  from 
St.  Joseph,  saying  that  he  had  given  up 
his  position  on  account  of  poor  health. 
Nothing  in  all  this  to  keep  Christmas  on, 
thought  Letty,  and  she  knitted  and  cro- 
cheted and  sewed  with  extra  ardor  that 
the  twins'  stockings  might  be  filled  with 
bright  things  of  her  own  making. 


*  *  £  * 


&•  ~k  ir  ■*■ 


VI 

On  the  afternoon  before  Christmas  of  that 
year,  the  North  Station  in  Boston  was 
filled  with  hurrying  throngs  on  the  way 
home  for  the  holidays.  Everybody  looked 
tired  and  excited,  but  most  of  them  had 
happy  faces,  and  men  and  women  alike 
had  as  many  bundles  as  they  could  carry ; 
bundles  and  boxes  quite  unlike  the  brown 
paper  ones  with  which  commuters  are 
laden  on  ordinary  days.  These  were  white 
70 


packages,  beribboned  and  beflowered  and 
behollied  and  bemistletoed,  to  be  gently 
carried  and  protected  from  crushing. 

The  train  was  filled  to  overflowing  and 
many  stood  in  the  aisles  until  Latham 
Junction  was  reached  and  the  overflow 
alighted  to  change  cars  for  Greentown  and 
way  stations. 

Among  the  crowd  were  two  men  with 
suit-cases  who  hurried  into  the  way  train 
and,  entering  the  smoking  car  from  oppo- 
site ends,  met  in  the  middle  of  the  aisle, 
dropped  their  encumbrances,  stretched  out 
a  hand  and  ejaculated  in  the  same  breath: 

"Dick  Larrabee,  upon  my  word!" 

"Dave  Gilman,  by  all  that's  great!  — 
Here,  let's  turn  over  a  seat  for  our  bag- 
gage and  sit  together.  Going  home,  I 
s'pose?" 

The  men  had  not  met  for  some  years, 
71 


&%t  (Romance  of 

but  each  knew  something  of  the  other's 
circumstances  and  hoped  that  the  other 
did  n't  know  too  much.  They  scanned 
each  other's  faces,  Dick  thinking  that 
David  looked  pinched  and  pale,  David 
half-heartedly  registering  the  quick  im- 
pression that  Dick  was  prosperous. 

"Yes,"  David  answered;  "I'm  going 
home  for  a  couple  of  days.  It's  such  a 
confounded  journey  to  that  one-horse 
village  that  a  business  man  can't  get  there 
but  once  in  a  generation!" 

"Awful  hole!"  confirmed  Dick.  "Sim- 
ply awful  hole!  I  did  n't  get  it  out  of  my 
system  for  years." 

"Married?"  asked  David. 

"  No;  rather  think  I  'm  not  the  marrying 
kind,  though  the  fact  is  I  've  had  no  time 
for  love  affairs  —  too  busy.  Let 's  see,  you 
have  a  child,  have  n't  you?" 
72 


"Yes;  Letty  has  seen  to  all  that  busi- 
ness for  me  since  my  wife  died."  (Wild 
horses  could  n't  have  dragged  the  infor- 
mation from  him  that  the  "child"  was 
"twins,"  and  Dick  didn't  need  it  any- 
way, for  he  had  heard  the  news  the  morn- 
ing he  left  Beulah.)  "Wonder  if  there 
have  been  many  changes  in  the  village?" 

"Don't  know;  there  never  used  to  be! 
Mrs.  Popham  has  been  ailing  for  years,  — 
she  could  n't  die;  and  Deacon  Todd 
wouldn't!"  Dick's  old  animosities  still 
lingered  faintly  in  his  memory,  though 
his  laughing  voice  and  the  twinkle  in  his 
eyes  showed  plainly  that  no  bitterness  was 
left.   ' '  How 's  business  with  you,  David ? ' ' 

"Only  so-so.   I've  had  the  devil's  own 

luck  lately.   Can't  get  anything  that  suits 

me   or   that   pays   a   decent   income.     I 

formed  a  new  connection  the  other  day, 

73 


ts%t  (Romance  of 

but  I  can't  say  yet  what  there  is  in  it. 
I'm  just  out  of  hospital;  operation;  they 
cut  out  the  wrong  thing  first,  I  believe, 
sewed  me  up  absent-mindedly,  then  re- 
membered it  was  the  other  thing,  and  did 
it  over  again.  At  any  rate,  that 's  the  only 
way  I  can  account  for  their  mewing  me  up 
there  for  two  months." 

"Well,  well,  that  is  hard  luck!  I'm 
sorry,  old  boy!  Things  didn't  begin  to 
go  my  way  either  till  within  the  last  few 
months.  I  've  always  made  a  fair  living 
and  saved  a  little  money,  but  never 
gained  any  real  headway.  Now  I  've  got  a 
first-rate  start  and  the  future  looks  pretty 
favorable,  and  best  of  all,  pretty  safe.  — 
No  trouble  at  home  calls  you  back  to 
Beulah?  I  hope  Letty  is  all  right?  "  Dick 
cast  an  anxious  side  glance  at  David, 
though  he  spoke  carelessly. 
74 


(ft  C§x\0tm<X8  Cavb 

"  Oh,  no !  Everything 's  serene,  so  far  as 
I  know.  I'm  a  poor  correspondent, 
especially  when  I ' ve  no  good  news  to  tell ; 
and  anyway,  the  mere  sight  of  a  pen  ties 
my  tongue.  I  'm  just  running  down  to 
surprise  Letty." 

Dick  looked  at  David  again.  He  began 
to  think  he  did  n't  like  him.  He  used  to, 
when  they  were  boys,  but  when  he 
brought  that  unaccountable  wife  home 
and  foisted  her  and  her  babies  on  Letty, 
he  rather  turned  against  him.  David  was 
younger  than  himself,  four  or  five  years 
younger,  but  he  looked  as  if  he  had  n't 
grown  up.  Surely  his  boyhood  chum 
had  n't  used  to  be  so  pale  and  thin- 
chested  or  his  mouth  so  ladylike  and 
pretty.  A  good  face,  though ;  straight  and 
clean,  with  honest  eyes  and  a  likable  smile. 
Lack  of  will,  perhaps,  or  a  persistent  run 
75 


G/%t  (Romance  of 

of  ill  luck.  Letty  had  always  kept  him 
stiffened  up  in  the  old  days.  Dick  recalled* 
one  of  his  father's  phrases  to  the  effect 
that  Dave  Gilman  would  spin  on  a  very 
small  biscuit,  and  wondered  if  it  were  still 
true. 

"And  you,  Dick?  Your  father's  still 
living?  You  see  I  have  n't  kept  up  with 
Beulah  lately." 

"Keeping  up  with  Beulah!  It  sounds 
like  the  title  of  a  novel,  but  the  hero  would 
have  to  be  a  snail  or  he'd  pass  Beulah  in 
the  first  chapter!  —  Yes,  father's  hale  and 
hearty,  I  believe." 

"You  come  home  every  Christmas,  I 
s'pose?"  inquired  David. 

"No;  as  a  matter  of  fact  this  is  my  first 
visit  since  I  left  for  good." 

"That's  about  my  case."  And  David, 
hung  his  head  a  little,  unconsciously. 
76 


(ft  Cfynztmas  Caxl 

"That  so?  Well,  I  was  a  hot-headed 
fool  when  I  said  good-bye  to  Beulah,  and 
it's  taken  me  all  this  time  to  cool  off  and 
make  up  my  mind  to  apologize  to  the  dad. 
There's  —  there's  rather  a  queer  coinci- 
dence about  my  visit  just  at  this  time." 

"  Speaking  of  coincidences,"  said  David, 
"I  can  beat  yours,  whatever  it  is.  If  the 
thought  of  your  father  brought  you  back, 
my  mother  drew  me  —  this  way!"  And 
he  took  something  from  his  inside  coat 
pocket.  —  "Do  you  see  that?" 

Dick  regarded  the  object  blankly,  then 
with  a  quick  gesture  dived  into  his  pocket 
and  brought  forth  another  of  the  same 
general  character.  "  How  about  this?  "  he 
asked. 

Each  had  one  of  Reba  Larrabee's  Christ- 
mas cards  but  David  had  the  first  unsuc- 
cessful one  and  Dick  the  popular  one  with 
77 


&§t  (Romans  of 

the  lonely  little  gray  house  and  the  verse 
about  the  folks  back  home. 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  in  aston- 
ishment and  Dick  gave  a  low  whistle. 
Then  they  bent  over  the  cards  together. 

11  It  was  mother's  picture  that  pulled  me 
back  to  Beulah,  I  don't  mind  telling  you," 
said  David,  his  mouth  twitching.  "  Don't 
you  see  it?" 

"Oh!  Is  that  your  mother?"  And  Dick 
scanned  the  card  closely. 

"  Don't  you  remember  her  portrait  that 
always  hung  there  after  she  died?" 

"Yes,  of  course!"  And  Dick's  tone  was 
apologetic.  "You  see  the  face  is  so  small  I 
did  n't  notice  it,  but  I  recognize  it  now 
and  remember  the  portrait." 

"Then  the  old  sitting-room ! "  exclaimed 
David.  "Look  at  the  rag  carpet  and  the 
blessed  old  andirons!  Gracious!  I've 
78 


(&  C§t\Btm<xz  Caxb 

crawled  round  those  Hessian  soldiers, 
burned  my  fingers  and  cracked  my  skull 
on  'em,  often  enough  when  I  was  a  kid ! 
When  I  'd  studied  the  card  five  minutes,  I 
bought  a  ticket  and  started  for  home." 

David's  eyes  were  suffused  and  his  lip 
trembled. 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Dick.  "  I  recog- 
nize the  dear  old  room  right  enough,  and 
of  course  I  should  know  Letty." 

"It  didn't  occur  to  me  that  it  was 
Letty  for  some  time,"  said  her  brother. 
"There's  just  the  glimpse  of  a  face  shown, 
and  no  real  likeness." 

"Perhaps  not,"  agreed  Dick.  "A 
stranger  would  n't  have  known  it  for 
Letty,  but  if  it  had  been  only  that  cape  I 
should  have  guessed.  It's  as  familiar  as 
Mrs.  Popham's  bugle  bonnet,  and  much 
prettier.  She  wore  it  every  winter,  — 
79 


G>§t  (Romance  of 

skating,  you  know,  —  and  it's  just  the 
color  of  her  hair." 

"Letty  has  a  good-shaped  head,"  said 
David  judicially.  "It  shows,  even  in  the 
card." 

"And  a  remarkable  ear,"  added  Dick, 
"so  small  and  so  close  to  her  head." 

"I  never  notice  people's  ears,"  con- 
fessed David. 

"Don't  you?  I  do,  and  eyelashes,  too. 
Mother 's  got  Letty's  eyelashes  down  fine. 
—  She's  changed,  Dave,  Letty  has!  That 
hurts  me.  She  was  always  so  gay  and 
chirpy.  In  this  picture  she  has  a  sad,  far- 
away, listening  look,  but  mother  may 
have  put  that  in  just  to  make  it  inter- 
esting." 

"Or  perhaps  I've  had  something  to  do 
with  the  change  of  expression!"  thought 
David.  "What  attracted  me  first,"  he 
80 


(ft  C§x\8tmcK8  Caxb 

added,  "was  your  mother's  verses.  She 
always  had  a  knack  of  being  pious  with- 
out cramming  piety  down  your  throat. 
I  liked  that  open  door.  It  meant  wel- 
come, no  matter  how  little  you  'd  deserved 
it." 

"  Where 'd  you  get  your  card,  Dave?" 
asked  Dick.  "  It's  prettier  than  mine." 

"A  nurse  brought  it  to  me  in  the  hos- 
pital just  because  she  took  a  fancy  to  it. 
She  did  n't  know  it  would  mean  anything 
to  me,  but  it  did  —  a  relapse ! "  And  David 
laughed  shamedfacedly.  "I  guess  she'll 
confine  herself  to  beef  tea  after  this !  — 
Where 'd  you  get  yours?" 

11  Picked  it  up  on  a  dentist's  mantelpiece 
when  I  was  waiting  for  an  appointment.  I 
was  traveling  round  the  room,  hands  in 
my  pockets,  when  suddenly  I  saw  this 
card  standing  up  against  an  hour-glass. 
81 


tf%t  (Romans  of 

The  color  caught  me.  I  took  it  to  the  win- 
dow, and  at  first  I  was  puzzled.  It  cer- 
tainly was  Letty's  house.  The  door 's  open 
you  see  and  there  's  somebody  in  the  win- 
dow. I  knew  it  was  Letty,  but  how  could 
any  card  publisher  have  found  the  way  to 
Beulah?  Then  I  discovered  mother's 
initials  snarled  up  in  holly,  and  remem- 
bered that  she  was  always  painting  and 
illuminating." 

"Queer  job,  life  is!"  said  David,  put- 
ting his  card  back  in  his  pocket  and  wish- 
ing there  were  a  little  more  time,  or  that 
he  had  a  little  more  courage,  so  that  he 
might  confide  in  Dick  Larrabee.  He  felt  a 
desire  to  tell  him  some  of  the  wretched- 
ness he  had  lived  through.  It  would  be  a 
comfort  just  to  hint  that  his  unhappiness 
had  made  him  a  coward,  so  that  the  very 
responsibilities  that  serve  as  a  spur  to 
82 


some  men  had  left  him  until  now  cold, 
unstirred,  unvitalized. 

1 ' You ' re  right ! "  Dick  answered .  "Life 
is  a  queer  job  and  it  does  n't  do  to  shirk 
it.  And  just  as  queer  as  anything  in  life 
is  the  way  that  mother's  Christmas  cards 
brought  us  back  to  Beulah!  They  acted 
as  a  sort  of  magic,  did  n't  they?  —  Jim- 
iny!  I  believe  the  next  station  is  Beulah. 
I  hope  the  depot  team  will  be  hitched  up." 

"Yes,  here  we  are;  seven  o'clock  ajid 
the  train  only  thirty-five  minutes  late.  It 
always  made  a  point  of  that  on  holidays !" 

"Never  mind!"  And  Dick's  tone  was 
as  gay  as  David's  was  sober.  "The  bean- 
pot  will  have  gone  back  to  the  cellarway 
and  the  doughnuts  to  the  crock,  but  the 
'folks  back  home'  '11  get  'em  out  for  us, 
and  a  mince  pie,  too,  and  a  cut  of  sage 
cheese." 

83 


*&%t  (Romance  of 

'There  won't  be  any  '  folks  back  home,' 
we're  so  late,  I'm  thinking.  There's  al- 
ways a  Christmas  Eve  festival  at  the 
church,  you  know.  They  never  change  — 
in  Beulah." 

"Then,  by  George,  they  can  have  me 
for  Santa  Claus!"  said  Dick  as  they 
stepped  out  on  the  platform.  "Why,  it 
does  n't  seem  cold  at  all;  yet  look  at  the 
ice  on  the  river!  What  skating,  and  what 
a  moon !  My  blood 's  up,  and  if  I  find  the 
parsonage  closed,  I'll  follow  on  to  the 
church  and  make  my  peace  with  the  mem- 
bers. There's  a  kind  of  spell  on  me!  For 
the  first  time  in  years  I  feel  as  though  I 
could  shake  hands  with  Deacon  Todd." 

"Well,  Merry  Christmas  to  you,  Dick, 

—  I'm  going   to  walk.    Good  gracious! 

Have  you  come  to  spend  the  winter?" 

For  various  bags  and  parcels  were  being 

84 


(ft  C§x'\*tm&*  Caxb 

flung  out  on  the  platform  with  that  indif- 
ference and  irresponsibility  that  bespeak 
the  touch  of  the  seasoned  baggage-handler. 

"You  did  n't  suppose  I  was  coming 
back  to  Beulah  empty-handed,  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,  did  you?  If  I  'm  in  time  for  the 
tree,  I'm  going  to  give  those  blue-nosed, 
frost-bitten  little  youngsters  something 
to  remember!  Jump  in,  Dave,  and  ride  as 
far  as  the  turn  of  the  road." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  tottering  old  sign- 
board that  marked  the  way  to  Beulah 
Center  hove  in  sight,  and  David  jumped 
from  the  sleigh  to  take  his  homeward 
path. 

"Merry  Christmas  again,  Dick!"  he 
waved. 

"Same  to  you,  Dave!  I'll  come  myself 
to  say  it  to  Letty  the  first  minute  I  see 
smoke  coming  from  your  chimney  to- 
85 


(&  Cfyxwima*  C&xb 

morrow  morning.  Tell  her  you  met  me, 
will  you,  and  that  my  visit  is  partly  for 
her,  only  that  father  had  to  have  his  turn 
first.  She'll  know  why.  Tell  her  mother's 
card  had  Christmas  magic  in  it,  tell  — " 

"Say,  tell  her  the  rest  yourself,  will  you, 
Dick?  "  And  Dave  broke  into  a  run  down 
the  hill  road  that  led  to  Letty. 

"I  will,  indeed!"  breathed  Dick  into 
his  muffler. 


VII 

Repeating  history,  Letty  was  again  at 
her  open  window.  She  had  been  half- 
ashamed  to  reproduce  the  card,  as  it  were, 
but  something  impelled  her.  She  was  safe 
from  scrutiny,  too,  for  everybody  had 
gone  to  the  tree  —  the  Pophams,  Mr. 
Davis,  Clarissa  Perry,  everybody  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  up  and  down  the  street, 
and  by  now  the  company  would  be  gath- 
ered and  the  tree  lighted.  She  could  keep 
watch  alone,  the  only  sound  being  that  of 
87 


t>fyt  (Romance  of 

the  children's  soft  breathing  in  the  next 
room. 

Letty  had  longed  to  go  to  the  festival 
herself,  but  old  Clarissa  Perry,  who  cared 
for  the  twins  now  and  then  in  Letty's  few 
absences,  had  a  niece  who  was  going  to 
"speak  a  piece,"  and  she  yearned  to  be 
present  and  share  in  the  glory;  so  Letty 
was  kept  at  home  as  she  had  been  number- 
less other  times  during  the  three  years  of 
her  vicarious  motherhood. 

The  night  was  mild  again,  as  in  the  year 
before.  The  snow  lay  like  white  powder 
on  the  hard  earth;  the  moon  was  full,  and 
the  street  was  a  length  of  dazzling  silence. 
The  lighted  candle  was  in  the  parlor  win- 
dow, shining  toward  the  meeting-house, 
the  fire  burned  brightly  on  the  hearth,  the 
front  door  was  ajar.  Letty  wrapped  her 
old  cape  round  her  shoulders,  drew  her 
63 


(ft  Cfyxwtm&B  Caxb 

hood  over  her  head,  and  seating  herself  at 
the  window  repeated  under  her  breath :  — 

"My  door  is  on  the  latch  to-night, 
The  hearth-fire  is  aglow. 
I  seem  to  hear  swift  passing  feet, 
The  Christ  Child  in  the  snow. 

"  My  heart  is  open  wide  to-night 
For  stranger,  kith,  or  kin; 
I  would  not  bar  a  single  door 
Where  Love  might  enter  in!" 

And  then  a  footstep,  drawing  ever  nearer, 
sounded  crunch,  crunch,  in  the  snow. 
Letty  pushed  her  chair  back  into  the 
shadow.  The  footstep  halted  at  the  gate, 
came  falteringly  up  the  path,  turned  aside, 
and  came  nearer  the  window.  Then  a 
voice  said:  "Don't  be  frightened  Letty, 
it's  David!  Can  I  come  in?  I  have  n't  any 
right  to,  except  that  it's  Christmas  Eve." 
That,  indeed,  was  the  magic,  the  all- 
comprehending  phrase  that  swept  the  past 
89 


&%t  (Romance  of 

out  of  mind  with  one  swift  stroke :  the  ac- 
knowledgment of  unworthiness,  the  child- 
like claim  on  the  forgiving  love  that  should 
be  in  every  heart  on  such  a  night  as  this. 
Resentment  melted  away  like  mist  before 
the  sun.  Her  deep  grievance  —  where  had 
it  gone?  How  could  she  speak  anything 
but  welcome?  For  what  was  the  window 
open,  the  fire  lighted,  the  door  ajar,  the 
guiding  candle-flame,  but  that  Love,  and 
David,  might  enter  in? 

There  were  few  words  at  first;  nothing 
but  close-locked  hands  and  wet  cheeks 
pressed  together.  Then  Letty  sent  David 
into  the  children's  room  by  himself.  If  the 
twins  were  bewitching  when  awake,  they 
were  nothing  short  of  angelic  when  asleep. 

David  came  out  a  little  later,  his  eyes 
reddened  with  tears,  his  hair  rumpled,  his 
face  flushed.  He  seemed  like  a  man  awed 
90 


"I    NEVER  THOUGHT   OF   THEM  AS    MY  CHILDREN    BEFORE' 


(ft  tfyxxstma*  Cat* 

by  an  entirely  new  experience.  He  could 
not  speak,  he  could  only  stammer  bro- 
kenly :  — 

"As  God  is  my  witness,  Letty,  there's 
been  something  wrong  with  me  up  to  this 
moment.  I  never  thought  of  them  as  my 
children  before,  and  I  can't  believe  that 
such  as  they  can  belong  to  me.  They  were 
never  wanted,  and  I've  never  had  any 
interest  in  them.  I  owe  them  to  you, 
Letty ;  you ' ve  made  them  what  they  are ; 
you,  and  no  one  else." 

"If  there  had  n't  been  something  there 
to  build  on,  my  love  and  care  would  n't 
have  counted  for  much.  They're  just  like 
dear  mother's  people  for  good  looks  and 
brains  and  pretty  manners:  they're  pure 
Shirley  all  the  way  through,  the  twinnies 
are." 

"  It's  lucky  for  me  that  they  are!"  said 
91 


G,%i  (Romans  of 

David  humbly.  "You  see,  Letty,  I  mar- 
ried Eva  to  keep  my  promise.  If  I  was  old 
enough  to  make  it,  I  was  old  enough  to 
keep  it,  so  I  thought.  She  never  loved 
me,  and  when  she  found  out  that  I  did  n't 
love  her  any  longer  she  turned  against  me. 
Our  life  together  was  awful,  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  but  she's  in  her  grave,  and 
nobody  '11  ever  hear  my  side,  now  that  she 
can't  tell  hers.  When  I  looked  at  those 
two  babies  the  day  I  left  you,  I  thought  of 
them  only  as  retribution;  and  the  vision 
of  them — ugly,  wrinkled,  writhing  little 
creatures — has  been  in  my  mind  ever 
since." 

"They  were  compensation,  not  retribu- 
tion, David.  I  ought  to  have  told  you 
how  clever  and  beautiful  they  were,  but 
you  never  asked  and  my  pride  was  up  in 
arms.  A  man  should  stand  by  his  own 
92 


(ft  C§x\*tma&  Caxb 

flesh  and  blood,  even  if  it  is  n't  attractive; 
that's  what  I  believe." 

"  I  know,  I  know!  But  I  've  had  no  feel- 
ing for  three  years.  I  've  been  like  a  frozen 
man,  just  drifting,  trying  to  make  both 
ends  meet,  my  heart  dead  and  my  body 
full  of  pain.  I  'm  just  out  of  a  hospital  — 
two  months  in  all." 

''David!  Why  didn't  you  let  me 
know,  or  send  for  me?" 

"  Oh,  it  was  way  out  in  Missouri.  I  was 
taken  ill  very  suddenly  at  the  hotel  in  St. 
Joseph  and  they  moved  me  at  once.  There 
were  two  operations  first  and  last,  and  I 
did  n't  know  enough  to  feed  myself  most 
of  the  time." 

"Poor,  poor  Buddy!  Did  you  have 
good  care?" 

"The  best.  I  had  more  than  care. 
Ruth  Bentley,  the  nurse  that  brought  me 
93 


Zfyt  $OMMltt  Of 

back  to  life,  made  me  see  what  a  useless 
creature  I  was." 

Some  woman's  instinct  stirred  in  Letty 
at  a  new  note  in  her  brother's  voice  and  a 
new  look  in  his  face.  She  braced  herself 
for  his  next  words,  sure  that  they  would 
open  a  fresh  chapter.  The  door  and  the 
window  were  closed  now,  the  shades 
pulled  down,  the  fire  low;  the  hour  was 
ripe  for  confidences. 

"  You  see,  Letty," —  and  David  cleared 
his  throat  nervously,  and  looked  at  the 
coals  gleaming  behind  the  Hessian  sol- 
diers,—  "it's  a  time  for  a  thorough 
housecleaning,  body,  mind,  and  soul,  a 
long  illness  is;  and  Miss  Bentley  knew  well 
enough  that  all  was  wrong  with  me.  I 
mentioned  my  unhappy  marriage  and  told 
her  all  about  you,  but  I  said  nothing  about 
the  children." 

94 


(ft  Cfyxxztmixz  Cat)* 

"Why  should  you?"  asked  Letty,  al- 
though her  mind  had  leaped  to  the  reason 
already. 

"Well,  I  was  a  poor  patient  in  one  of  the 
cheapest  rooms;  broken  in  health,  without 
any  present  means  of  support.  I  wanted 
to  stand  well  with  her,  she  had  been  so 
good  to  me,  and  I  thought  if  she  knew 
about  the  twins  she  would  n't  believe  I 
could  ever  make  a  living  for  three." 

"Still  less  for  four!"  put  in  Letty,  with 
an  irrepressible  note  of  teasing  in  her 
tone. 

She  had  broken  the  ice.  Like  a  torrent 
set  free,  David  dashed  into  the  story  of 
the  last  two  months  and  Ruth  Bentley's 
wonderful  influence.  How  she  had  re- 
created him  within  as  well  as  without. 
How  she  was  the  best  and  noblest  of 
women,  willing  to  take  a  pauper  by  the 
95 


Grfyt  (Romance  of 

hand  and  brace  him  up  for  a  new  battle 
with  life. 

"Strength  appeals  to  me,"  confessed 
David.  "Perhaps  it 's  because  I  am  weak; 
for  I'm  afraid  I  am,  a  little!" 

"Be  careful,  Davy!   Eva  was  strong!" 

David  shuddered.  He  remembered  a 
strength  that  lashed  and  buffeted  and 
struck  and  overpowered. 

"Ruth  is  different,"  he  said.  "'Out  of 
the  strong  came  forth  sweetness'  used  to 
be  one  of  Parson  Larrabee's  texts.  That's 
Ruth's  kind  of  strength.  —  Can  I  —  will 
you  let  me  bring  her  here  to  see  you, 
Letty,  —  say  for  New  Year's?  It's  all  so 
different  from  the  last  time  I  asked  you. 
Then  I  knew  I  was  bringing  you  nothing 
but  sorrow  and  pain,  but  Ruth  carries  her 
welcome  in  her  face." 

The  prop  inside  of  Letty  wavered  un- 
96 


(ft  C^mtmas  Catb 

steadily  for  a  moment  and  then  stood  in 
its  accustomed  upright  position. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked.  "  It's  the  right 
thing  to  do;  but  you  must  tell  her  about 
the  children  first." 

"Oh!  I  did  that  long  ago,  after  I  found 
out  that  she  cared.  It  was  only  at  first 
that  I  did  n't  dare.  I  have  n't  told  you, 
but  she  went  out  for  her  daily  walk  and 
brought  me  home  a  Christmas  card,  the 
prettiest  one  she  could  find,  she  said.  I 
was  propped  up  on  pillows,  as  weak  as  a 
kitten.  I  looked  at  it  and  looked  at  it,  and 
when  I  saw  that  it  was  this  room,  the  old 
iireplace  and  mother's  picture,  and  the 
Hessian  soldier  andirons,  when  I  realized 
L.Lere  was  a  face  at  the  window  and  that 
the  door  was  ajar,  —  everything  just  swam 
before  me  and  I  fainted  dead  away.  I 
had  a  relapse,  and  when  I  was  better 
97 


&§*  (Romance  of 

again  I  told  her  everything.  She 's  fond  of 
children.  It  did  n't  make  any  difference, 
except  for  her  to  say  that  the  more  she 
had  to  do  for  me,  the  more  she  wanted  to 
do  it."      ' 

"Well,"  said  Letty  with  a  break  in  her 
voice,  "that's  love,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  and 
if  you  've  been  lucky  enough  to  win  it,  take 
it  and  be  thankful,  and  above  all,  nurse 
and  keep  it.  —  So  one  of  Reba's  cards,  the 
one  the  publisher  thought  would  never  sell, 
found  you  and  brought  you  back!  How 
wonderful!  We  little  thought  of  that, 
Rebaand  I!" 

"Reba's  work  did  n't  stop  there,  Letty! 
There  was  so  much  that  had  to  be  said 
between  you  and  me,  just  now,  that  I 
could  n't  let  another  subject  creep  in  till 
it  was  finished  and  we  were  friends ;  — 
but  Dick  Larrabee  saw  Reba's  card  about 
98 


(ft  Cfyxutimw  Caxb 

-  the  folks  back  home '  in  Chicago  and  he 
bought  a  ticket  for  Beulah  just  as  I  did. 
We  met  in  the  train  and  compared  notes." 

"  Dick  Larrabee  home?  " 

The  blood  started  in  Letty's  heart  and 
sped  hither  and  thither,  warming  her  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  Yes,  looking  as  fit  as  a  fiddle;  the  way 
a  man  looks  when  things  are  coming  his 
way." 

"But  what  did  the  card  mean  to  him? 
Did  he  seem  to  like  Reba's  verses?" 

"Yes,  but  I  guess  the  card  just  spelled 
home  to  him ;  and  he  recognized  this  house 
in  a  minute,  of  course.  I  showed  him  my 
card  and  he  said:  'That's  Letty  fast 
enough:  I  know  the  cape.'  He  recog- 
nized you  in  a  minute,  he  said." 

He  knew  the  cape!  Yes,  the  old  cape 
had  been  close  to  his  shoulder  many  a 
99 


&§t  (Romance  of 

time.  He  liked  it  and  said  it  matched  her 
hair. 

"He  was  awfully  funny  about  your  ear, 
too!  I  told  him  I  never  noticed  women's 
ears,  and  he  said  he  did,  when  they  were 
pretty,  and  their  eyelashes,  too.  —  Any- 
thing remarkable  about  your  eyelashes, 
Letty?" 

"Nothing  that  I'm  aware  of!"  said 
Letty  laughingly,  although  she  was  fib- 
bing and  she  knew  it. 

"And  he  said  he'd  call  and  say  'Merry 
Christmas'  to  you  the  first  thing  to- 
morrow; that  he  would  have  been  here 
to-night  but  you  'd  know  his  father  had  to 
come  first.  You  don't  mind  being  second 
to  the  parson,  do  you?" 

No,  Letty  did  n't  mind.  Her  heart  was 
unaccountably  light  and  glad,  like  a  girl's 
heart.  It  was  the  Eve  of  Mary  when  all 
100 


(ft  Cfyxxztmw  Caxb 

women  are  blest  because  of  one.  The  Wise 
Men  brought  gifts  to  the  Child;  Letty  had 
often  brought  hers  timidly,  devoutly, 
trustfully,  and  perhaps  to-night  they  were 
coming  back  to  her! 


r  ""t?-vj  — ''i-'  .•^.s£%i^;,-es-' 


V.-"'"'^^     IrJ.»X«l-'^3SS  ***** - 


VIII 

"  Put  the  things  down  on  the  front  steps," 
said  Dick  to  the  driver  as  he  neared  the 
parsonage.  "If  there's  nobody  at  home 
I  '11  go  on  up  to  the  church  after  I  've  got 
this  stuff  inside." 

"Got  a  key?" 

"No,  don't  need  one.  I've  picked  all 
the  locks  with  a  penknife  many  a  time. 
Besides,  the  key  is  sure  to  be  under  the 
doormat.   Yes,  here  it  is !  Of  all  the  unac- 

102 


(21  tfyxiztma*  Caxb 

countable  customs  I  ever  knew,  that 's  the 
most  laughable!" 

"Works  all  right  for  you!" 

"Yes,  and  for  all  the  other  tramps,"  — 
and  Dick  opened  the  door  and  lifted  in  his 
belongings.  "Good-night,"  he  called  to 
the  driver;  "I'll  walk  up  to  the  church 
after  I  've  found  out  whether  mother  keeps 
the  mince  pie  and  cider  apple  sauce  in  the 
same  old  place." 

A  few  minutes  later,  his  hunger  par- 
tially stayed,  Dick  Larrabee  locked  the 
parsonage  door  and  took  the  well-trodden 
path  across  the  church  common.  It  was 
his  father's  feet,  he  knew,  that  had  worn 
the  shoveled  path  so  smooth;  his  kind, 
faithful  feet  that  had  sped  to  and  fro  on 
errands  of  mercy,  never  faltering  in  all 
the  years. 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock.  The  sound 
103 


G/%t  (Romance  of 

of  the  melodeon,  with  children's  voices, 
floated  out  from  the  white-painted  meet- 
ing-house, all  ablaze  with  light;  or  as 
much  ablaze  as  a  kerosene  chandelier  and 
six  side  lamps  could  make  it.  The  horse 
sheds  were  crowded  with  teams  of  various 
sorts,  the  horses  well  blanketed  and  stand- 
ing comfortably  in  straw;  and  the  last 
straggler  was  entering  the  right-hand  door 
of  the  church  as  Dick  neared  the  steps. 
Simultaneously  the  left-hand  door  opened, 
and  on  the  background  of  the  light  inside 
appeared  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Todd,  the  wife 
of  his  ancient  enemy,  the  senior  deacon. 
Dick  could  see  that  a  sort  of  dressing- 
room  had  been  curtained  off  in  the  little 
entry,  as  it  had  often  been  in  former  times 
of  tableaux  and  concerts  and  what  not. 
Valor,  not  discretion,  was  the  better  pol- 
icy, and  walking  boldly  up  to  the  steps 
104 


(§  C$>x\Btm<X8  Cixxb 

Dick  took  off  his  fur  cap  and  said,  "Good- 
evening,  Mrs.  Todd!" 

"Good  gracious  me!  Where  under  the 
canopy  did  you  hail  from,  Dick  Larrabee? 
Was  your  folks  lookin'  for  you?  They 
ain't  breathed  a  word  to  none  of  us." 

"No,  I'm  a  surprise,  Mrs.  Todd." 

"Well,  I  know  you've  given  me  one! 
Will  you  wait  a  spell  till  the  recitations  is 
over?  You  'd  scare  the  children  so,  if  you 
go  in  now,  that  they  'd  forget  their  pieces 
more'n  they  gen'ally  do." 

"I  can  endure  the  loss  of  the  'pieces,'" 
said  Dick  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

At  which  Mrs.  Todd  laughed  compre- 
hendingly,  and  said:  "Isaac '11  get  a  stool 
or  a  box  or  something ;  there  ain't  a  vacant 
seat  in  the  church.  I  wish  we  could  say  the 
same  o'  Sundays!  —  Isaac!  Isaac!  Come 
out  and  see  who's  here,"  she  called  under 
105 


ts%t  (Romans  of 

her  breath.  "He  won't  be  long.  He's 
tendin'  John  Trimble  in  the  dressin'-room. 
He  was  the  only  one  in  the  village  that 
was  willin'  to  be  Santa  Claus  an'  he  wa'n't 
over-willin'.  Now  he's  et  something  for 
supper  that  disagrees  with  him  awfully 
and  he's  all  doubled  up  with  colic.  We 
can't  have  the  tree  till  the  exercises  is 
over,  but  that  won't  be  mor'n  fifteen 
minutes,  so  I  sent  Isaac  home  to  make  a 
mustard  plaster.  He's  puttin'  it  on  John 
now.  John's  dreadful  solemn  and  una- 
musin'  when  he's  well,  and  I  can't  think 
how  he'll  act  when  he's  all  crumpled  up 
with  stomach-ache,  an'  the  mustard  plas- 
ter drawin'  like  fire." 

Dick  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 
He  had  forgotten  just  how  unexpected 
Beulah's  point  of  view  always  was. 

Deacon  Todd  now  came  out  cautiously. 
106 


(ft  CfyxiBtma*  C<xtb 

"I've  got  it  on  him,  mother,  tho'  he's 
terrible  unresigned  to  it;  an'  I've  given 
him  a  stiff  dose  o'  Jamaica  Ginger.  We 
can  tell  pretty  soon  whether  he  can  take 
his  part." 

"Here's  Dick  Larrabee  come  back, 
Isaac,  just  when  we  thought  he  had  given 
up  Beulah  for  good  an'  all!"  said  Mrs. 
Todd. 

The  Deacon  stood  on  the  top  step,  his 
gaunt,  grizzled  face  peering  above  the 
collar  of  his  great  coat;  not  a  man  to  eat 
his  words  very  often,  Deacon  Isaac  Todd. 

"Well,  young  man,"  he  said,  "you've 
found  your  way  home,  have  you?  It's 
about  time,  if  you  want  to  see  your  father 
alive!" 

"If  it  had  n't  been  for  you  and  others 
like  you,  men  who  had  forgotten  what  it 
was  to  be  young,  I  should  never  have  gone 

107 


Zfyt  (Romance  of 

away,"  said  Dick  hotly.  "What  had  I 
done  worse  than  a  dozen  others,  only  that 
I  happened  to  be  the  minister's  son?" 

"That's  just  it;  you  were  bringin'  trou- 
ble on  the  parish,  makin'  talk  that  re- 
flected on  your  father.  Folks  said  if  he 
could  n't  control  his  own  son,  he  wa'n't 
fit  to  manage  a  church.  You  played  cards, 
you  danced,  you  drove  a  fast  horse." 

"I  never  did  a  thing  I'm  ashamed  of 
but  one,"  —  and  Dick's  voice  was  firm. 
"My  misdeeds  were  nothing  but  boyish 
nonsense,  but  the  village  never  gave  me 
credit  for  a  single  virtue.  I  ought  to  have 
remembered  father's  position,  but  what- 
ever I  was  or  whatever  I  did,  you  had  no 
right  to  pray  for  me  openly  for  full  five 
minutes  at  a  public  meeting.  That  galled 
me  worse  than  anything!" 

"Now,  Isaac,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Todd. 
108 


(ft  C^xx&tmdB  Cavb 

"I  hope  you'll  believe  me!  I've  told  you 
once  a  week,  on  an  average,  these  last 
three  years,  that  you  might  have  chas- 
tened Dick  some  other  way  besides  prayin' 
for  him  in  meetin'  !  " 

The  Deacon  smiled  grimly.  "You  both 
talk  as  if  prayin'  was  one  of  the  seven 
deadly  sins,"  he  said. 

"I'm  not  objecting  to  your  prayers," 
agreed  Dick,  "but  there  were  plenty  of 
closets  in  your  house  where  you  might 
have  gone  and  told  the  Lord  your  opinion 
of  me;  only  that  was  n't  good  enough  for 
you;  you  must  needs  tell  the  whole 
village!" 

"There,  father,  that's  what  I  always 
said,"  agreed  Mrs.  Todd. 

"Well,  I  ain't  one  that  can't  yield  when 
the  majority's  against  me,"  said  the  Dea- 
con, "  particularly  when  I  'm  treatin'  John 

109 


(ft  tfyxtetmctf  Cxtb 

Trimble  for  the  colic.  If  you  '11  stop  actin' 
so  you  threaten  to  split  the  church,  Dick 
Larrabee,  I  '11  stop  prayin'  for  you.  The 
Lord  knows  how  I  feel  about  it  now,  so  I 
needn't  keep  on  remind  in'  Him." 


IX 

"That's  a  bargain  and  here's  my  hand  on 
it,"  cried  Dick.  "Now,  what  do  you  say 
to  letting  me  be  Santa  Claus?  Come  on  in 
and  let's  look  at  John  Trimble.  He  'd 
make  a  splendid  Job  or  Jeremiah,  but  I 
would  n't  let  him  spoil  a  Christmas  festi- 
val!" 

"Do  let  Dick  take  the  part,  father,"  — 
and  Mrs.  Todd's  tone  was  most  ingratiat- 
ing.   "John's  terrible    dull   and    bashful 
anyway,  an'  mebbe  he'd  have  a  pain  he 
III 


&fyt  (Romance  of 

couldn't  stan'  jest  when  he's  givin'  out 
the  presents.  An'  Dick  is  always  so 
amusin'." 

Deacon  Todd  led  the  way  into  the  im- 
provised dressing-room.  He  had  removed 
John's  gala  costume  in  order  to  apply  the 
mustard  faithfully  and  he  lay  in  a  crum- 
pled heap  in  the  corner.  The  plaster  itself 
adorned  a  stool  near  by. 

"Now,  John!  John!  That  plaster  won't 
do  you  no  good  on  the  stool.  It  ain't  the 
stool  that  needs  drawin';  it's  your  stom- 
ach," argued  Mrs.  Todd. 

"I'm  drawed  pretty  nigh  to  death 
a'ready,"  moaned  John.  "  I'm  rore,  that's 
what  I  am,  —  rore!  An'  I  won't  be  Santa 
Claus  neither.    I  want  to  go  home." 

"Wrop  him  up  and  get  him  into  your 
sleigh,  father,  and  take  him  home;  then 
come  right  back.  Bed 's  the  place  for  him. 
112 


(ft  Cfyxxstma*  Caxb 

Keep  that  hot  flat-iron  on  his  stomach,  if 
he'd  rather  have  it  than  the  mustard. 
Men-folks  are  such  cowards.  I'll  dress 
Dick  while  you're  gone.  Mebbe  it's  a 
Providence!" 

On  the  whole,  Dick  agreed  with  Mrs. 
Todd  as  he  stood  ready  to  make  his  en- 
trance. The  School  Committee  was  in  the 
church  and  he  had  had  much  to  do  with 
its  members  in  former  days.  The  Select- 
men of  the  village  were  present,  and  he 
had  made  their  acquaintance  once,  in  an 
executive  session.  The  deacons  were  all 
there  and  the  pillars  of  the  church  and  the 
choir  and  the  organist  —  a  spinster  who 
had  actively  disapproved  when  he  had  put 
beans  in  the  melodeon  one  Sunday.  Yes, 
it  was  best  to  meet  them  in  a  body  on  a 
festive  occasion  like  this,  when  the  rigors 
of  the  village  point  of  view  were  relaxed. 
113 


£#e  (Romance  of 

It  would  relieve  him  of  several  dozen  pri- 
vate visits  of  apology,  and  altogether  he 
felt  that  his  courage  would  have  wavered 
had  he  not  been  disguised  as  another  per- 
son altogether:  a  popular  favorite;  a  fat 
jolly,  rollicking  dispenser  of  bounties  to 
the  general  public.  When  he  finally  dis- 
carded his  costume,  would  it  not  be  easier, 
too,  to  meet  his  father  first  before  the 
church  full  of  people  and  have  the  solemn 
hour  with  him  alone,  later  at  night?  Yes, 
as  Mrs.  Todd  said,  "Mebbe  'twas  a 
Providence!" 

There  was  never  such  a  merry  Christ- 
mas festival  in  the  Orthodox  church  of 
Beulah ;  everybody  was  of  one  mind  as  to 
that.  There  was  a  momentary  fear  that 
John  Trimble,  a  pillar  of  prohibition, 
might  have  imbibed  hard  cider;  so  gay,  so 
114 


(§  Cfyx'wtmw  C&xb 

nimble,  so  mirth-provoking  was  Santa 
Claus.  When  was  John  Trimble  ever 
known  to  unbend  sufficiently  to  romp  up 
the  side  aisle  jingling  his  sleigh  bells,  and 
leap  over  a  front  pew  stuffed  with  presents, 
to  gain  the  vantage-ground  he  needed  for 
the  distribution  of  his  pack?  The  wing 
pews  on  one  side  of  the  pulpit  had  been 
floored  over  and  the  Christmas  Tree  stood 
there,  triumphant  in  beauty,  while  the 
gifts  strewed  the  green-covered  platform 
at  its  feet. 

How  gay,  how  audacious,  how  witty 
was  Santa  Claus!  How  the  village  had 
always  misjudged  John  Trimble,  and  how 
completely  had  John  Trimble  hitherto 
obscured  his  light  under  a  bushel.  In  his 
own  proper  person  children  avoided  him, 
but  they  crowded  about  this  Santa  Claus, 
encircling  his  legs,  gurgling  with  joy  when 
115 


&§t  (Romance  of 

they  were  lifted  to  his  shoulder,  their 
laughter  ringing  through  the  church  at 
his  droll  antics.  A  sense  of  mystery  grew 
when  he  opened  a  pack  on  the  pulpit  stairs, 
a  pack  unfamiliar  in  its  outward  aspect  to 
the  Committee  on  Entertainment.  Every 
girl  had  a  little  doll  dressed  in  fashionable 
attire,  and  every  boy  a  brilliantly  colored, 
splendidly  noisy,  tin  trumpet ;  but  hanging 
to  every  toy  by  a  red  ribbon  was  Mrs. 
Larrabee's  Christmas  card;  her  despised 
one  about  the  "folks  back  home." 

The  publishers'  check  to  the  minister's 
wife  had  been  accompanied  by  a  dozen 
complimentary  copies,  but  these  had  been 
sent  to  Reba's  Western  friends  and  rela- 
tions ;  and  although  the  card  was  on  many 
a  marble-topped  table  in  Beulah,  it  had 
not  been  bought  by  all  the  inhabitants, 
by  any  means.   Fifteen  cents  would  pur- 

110 


HANDS   THAT   TREMBLED,    AS    EVERYBODY   COULD    SEE 


(ft  C$x\*tmcn*  Catb 

chase  something  useful,  and  Beulah  did 
not  contain  many  Croesuses.  Still,  here  the 
cards  were,  —  enough  of  them  for  every- 
body, —  with  a  linen  handkerchief  for 
every  woman  and  every  man  in  the  meet- 
ing-house, and  a  dozen  more  sticking  out 
of  the  pack,  as  the  people  in  the  front 
pews  could  plainly  see.  Modest  gifts,  but 
plenty  of  them,  and  nobody  knew  from 
whence  they  came!  There  was  a  buzzing 
in  the  church,  a  buzzing  that  grew  louder 
and  more  persistent  when  Santa  Claus 
threw  a  lace  scarf  around  Mrs.  Larrabee's 
shoulders  and  approached  her  husband 
with  a  fine  beaver  collar  in  his  hands: 
hands  that  trembled,  as  everybody  could 
see,  when  he  buttoned  the  piece  of  fur 
around  the  old  minister's  neck. 

And  the  minister?  He  had  been  half  in, 
and  half  out  of,  a  puzzling  dream  for  ten 
117 


&%t  (Romance  of 

minutes,  and  when  those  hands  of  Santa 
Claus  touched  him,  his  flesh  quivered. 
They  reminded  him  of  baby  fingers  that 
had  crept  around  his  neck  years  ago  when 
he  patiently  walked  the  parsonage  floor  at 
night  with  his  ailing  child  in  his  arms. 
Every  drop  of  blood  in  his  veins  called  out 
for  answer.  He  looked  above  the  white 
cotton  beard  and  mustache  to  a  pair  of 
dark  eyes ;  merry,  mischievous,  yet  tender 
and  soft;  at  a  brown  wavy  lock  escaping 
from  the  home-made  wig.  Then  those  who 
were  near  heard  a  weak  voice  say,  "My 
son!"  and  those  who  were  far  away  ob- 
served Santa  Claus  tear  off  his  wig  and 
beard,  heard  him  cry,  "Father!"  —  and, 
as  Mrs.  Todd  said  afterwards,  saw  him 
"fall  on  to  the  minister's  neck  right  there 
before  the  whole  caboodle,  an'  cling  to  him 
for  all  the  world  like  an  engaged  couple, 
118 


only  they  would  n't  'a'  made  so  free  in 
public." 

No  ice  but  would  have  thawed  in  such 
an  atmosphere!  Grown-up  Beulah  forgot 
how  much  trouble  Dick  Larrabee  had 
caused  in  other  days,  and  the  children  had 
found  a  friend  for  all  time.  The  extraordi- 
nary number  of  dolls,  trumpets,  handker- 
chiefs, and  Christmas  cards  circulating  in 
the  meeting-house  raised  the  temperature 
considerably,  and  induced  a  general  feel- 
ing that  if  Dick  Larrabee  had  really  ever 
been  a  bit  wild  and  reckless,  he  had  evi- 
dently reformed,  and  prospered,  besides. 

Yes,  no  one  but  a  kind  and  omniscient 
Providence  could  have  so  beautifully  ar- 
ranged Dick  Larrabee's  homecoming,  and 
so  wisely  superintended  his  complete  re- 
instatement in  the  good  graces  of  Beulah 
village.  A  few  maiden  ladies  felt  that  he 
119 


G>$t  (Romans  of 

had  been  a  trifle  immodest  in  embracing, 
and  especially  in  kissing,  his  father  in 
front  of  the  congregation;  venturing  the 
conviction  that  kissing,  an  indecorous  cus- 
tom in  any  event,  was  especially  lament- 
able in  public. 

"Pity  Letty  Boynton  missed  this  eve- 
nin',"  said  Mrs.  Todd.  "Her  an'  Dick  al- 
ters had  a  fancy  for  each  other,  so  I've 
heard,  though  I  don't  know  how  true. 
Clarissa  Perry  might  jest  as  well  have 
stayed  with  the  twins  as  not,  for  her  niece 
that  spoke  a  piece  forgot  'bout  half  of  it 
an'  Clarissa  was  in  a  cold  sweat  every 
minute.  Then  the  niece  had  a  fit  o'  cry  in', 
she  was  so  ashamed  at  failin',  an'  Clarissa 
had  to  take  her  home.  So  they  both 
missed  the  tree,  an'  Letty  might  'a'  been 
here  as  well  as  not  an'  got  her  handker- 
chief an'  her  card.  I  sent  John  Trimble's 
120 


(ft  Cfyxwimw  Carb 

to  him  by  the  doctor,  but  he  did  n't  take 
no  notice,  Isaac  said,  for  the  doctor  was 
liftin'  off  the  hot  flatiron  an'  puttin'  tur- 
pentine on  the  spot  where  I  'd  had  my 
mustard.  —  Anyway,  if  John  had  to  have 
the  colic  he  could  n't  'a'  chosen  a  better 
time,  an'  if  he  gets  over  it,  I  shall  be 
real  glad  he  had  it;  for  nobody  ever  seen 
sech  a  Santa  Claus  as  Dick  Larrabee 
made,  an'  there  never  was,  an'  never  will 
be,  sech  a  lively,  an'  amusin'  an'  free-an'- 
easy  evenin'  in  the  Orthodox  church." 


X 

"Bless  the  card!"  sighed  David  thank- 
fully as  he  sat  down  to  smoke  a  good-night 
pipe  and  propped  his  feet  contentedly 
against  the  little  Hessian  soldiers.  The 
blaze  of  the  logs  on  his  own  family  hearth- 
stone, after  many  months  of  steam  heaters 
in  the  hall  bedrooms  of  cheap  hotels,  how 
it  soothed  his  tired  heart  and  gave  it  vis- 
ions of  happiness  to  come!  The  card  was 
on  his  knee,  where  he  could  look  from  its 
122 


(ft  CfyxiBtma*  Cavb 

pictured  scene  to  the  real  one  of  which  he 
was  again  a  glad  and  grateful  part. 

"Bless  the  card!"  whispered  Letty 
Boynton  to  herself  as  she  went  to  her 
moonlit  bedroom.  Her  eyes  searched  the 
snowy  landscape  and  found  the  parsonage, 
"over  the  hills  and  far  away."  Then  her 
heart  flew  like  a  bird  across  the  distance 
and  beat  its  wings  in  gladness,  for  a  faint 
light  streamed  from  the  parson's  study 
windows  and  she  knew  that  father  and  son 
were  together.  That,  in  itself,  was  enough, 
with  David  sleeping  under  the  home  roof; 
but  to-morrow  was  coming  and  to-morrow 
might  be  hers  —  her  very  own ! 

"Bless  the  card!"  said  Reba  Larrabee, 
the  tears  shining  in  her  eyes  as  she  left 
the  minister  alone  with  his  son.  "Bless 
everybody  and  everything!  Above  all, 
bless  God, '  from  whom  all  blessings  flow.' " 

123 


(ft  Cfyx\ztm<x*  Caxb 

"Bless  the  card,"  said  Dick  Larrabee 
when  he  went  up  the  narrow  parsonage 
stairs  to  the  room  of  his  boyhood  and 
found  everything  as  it  had  been  years  ago. 
He  leaned  the  little  piece  of  paper  magic 
against  the  mantel  clock,  threw  it  a  kiss, 
and  then,  opening  his  pocket-book,  he 
went  nearer  to  the  lamp  and  took  out  the 
faded  tintype  of  a  brown-haired  girl  in  a 
brown  cape.  "Bless  the  card!"  he  said 
again,  with  a  new  note  in  his  voice:  "Bless 
the  girl !  And  bless  to-morrow  if  it  brings 
me  what  I  want  most  in  all  the  world!" 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


